#fangs and fractured hearts

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendant. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn Note: It is/will be mentioned Tav is a draconic sorcerer

Rating: Explicit 18+ [Slow Burn]

Setting: Post End-Game Please note: Written before epilogues were added so may not be congruent with that content

Warnings [more will be added] - expect mature content/read at your own risk.

Blood drinking. Sexual Themes/Tension. Slow Burn. Eventual Explicit Smut. Pining. Suicidal Thoughts. Biting. Violence.

Small Notes:

I am not well-versed in DnD 5e and it's rules as it pertains to this world, so although I'm going to try and keep it as accurate as possible, some aspects may not align or may be completely made up for story reasons.

Mentioned of in-game missable content that I've made resolve a certain way for this Tav.

Fabricated camp events.

Tav is named in later chapters (15 +), will have her own backstory, which we may explore eventually.

Details of Tav's appearance have been made up, but I've tried to keep details to a minimum so you can imagine your own Tav.

Otherwise, I hope you all enjoy!

Big thank you to everyone who reads and/or comments/follows/likes/reblogs - it truly does make my day to know you're finding some enjoyment in my story :)

Chapter 1: Lost

Chapter 2: Reunion

Chapter 3: One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Chapter 4: Little Lamb

Chapter 5: Rebellion

Chapter 6: Dancing with Darkness

Chapter 7: Rogue Desire

Chapter 8: Free Fall

Chapter 9: Beneath the Veil

Chapter 10: Soulbound

Chapter 11: 'Till Death Do Us Part

Chapter 12: Catharsis

Chapter 13: The Fallacy of Power

Chapter 14: Devil's Ploy

Chapter 15: Reclamation

AO3 [cross-posted]

If you're interested, I also write a spawn Astarion x Tav fic - Shadows of the Past

#bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #buldars gate 3 #astarion smut #bg3 fanfiction #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers #bg3 #astarion #fangs and fractured hearts #astarion x named tav #astarion x oc

[ayselluna]

Ascendant Astarion Recommendations!

I'm a fan of both Spawn and Ascendant Astarion so I do enjoy reading both. But if you want to explore and read some good shit~ Ascendant fics well here you go~

I've read a lot so bear with me, These are my TOPS~ I LOVE ALL OF THESE:

A Gift, A Curse by @elemit - This updates daily most of the time, the author is getting busy IRL but it should be back on a daily update again soon I think. This is one of the darker theme of Ascendant Astarion "50 shades of 'FCKNG LITTLE TWAT' Ancunin" as one of the comment says haha some scenes are "traumatic" but the rollercoaster ride of emotions you'll get on this story is one for the books! ONGOING!

Fangs and Fractured Hearts - by @fangsandfracturedhearts - This one's one of the softer sides of the Ascendant, the dynamic of Tav and Astarion here is exquisite! The cliffhanger on this one just uggghhhhh. i love it!! ONGOING!

Hellish Rebuke by @bluedaze - this one's a classic! the details on this story is so genius I swear. Also I think a lot of Astarion fanfic writers got inspired with the Devil's dealing here. Also Tav here is effing smart and just chef's kiss! such a great heroine! ONGOING!

His Star - His Queen [Originally titled Across Stars and Time] by ARandomIntrovert - Now this a bit different, What if multiverse exists? Now there's two Astarions fighting over you, Spawn VS Ascendant, where do you think this would go? :)) Story's definitely amazing and unique! I easily got invested. haha ONGOING!

In Another Life by @locallegume - Definitely a softer side of the Ascendant but Tav and Astarion's dynamic here is one of my fave! <3 Tav here is not the overly good role model we usually read, she's troubled too and definitely has effed up issues. but sometimes you just need to find your own freak and be together forever. ONGOING!

Pieces Still Stuck In Your Teeth - by @howlsmovinglibrary / @wetcatspellcaster - The amount of Banter and D&D Lore on this one is superb! you have to watch out for the writer's notes! I love how I get to learn more D&D stuff and godssss how many times I almost got so swayed by the Ascendant here! good thing Tav's so good at bantering haha ONGOING!

Whither is thy beloved gone? by @brabblesblog - It has a sequel!!! - that's how good it is! <3 also The Ascendant here is my favorite! The confrontations are just so real and so true I caaaaan't. He wrote the Ascendant so good I actually sided with him more than Tav! A lot of smut ngl but I got into the characters more that I should have. you're missing out if you haven't read this. COMPLETED!

Remember ye not the former things by @brabblesblog - THE SEQUEL!! It focuses more on the aftermath and them working out their relationship, a lot more TAV bg story but gods, Astarion here , I just want to smother him with cuddles and kisses, TAKE MEEEEE ONGOING!

Most of these are still ongoing but I am updated w/ each, along with other Spawn Astarion fics :)) They are all good! some more soft than the others, some darker and evil :))

Let me know if you guys want to get some Spawn Astarion fics recommendations!

#my day starts and ends with me just reading Astarion fanfics tbh #my life is just him now #I live for these now tbh coz larian isn't going to add more!!! #astarion #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion fic #just me rambling #ascended astarion x tav #ascended astarion

[rageprufrock]

Sneak Peak: MLC Fanfic

I have so many chores to do so instead I am on tumblr posting this little snippet instead because adulthood is a SCAM.

Anyway, please have some in-progress modern AU where Jiao Liqiao hits Di Feisheng with a car.

The whole thing starts when Jiao Liqiao hits Di Feisheng with an orange Hummer outside of the Alliance Security headquarters while he's on the phone with Li Lianhua.

***

Six hours later, Li Lianhua is sitting around in Di Feisheng's hospital room dressed like someone's dad's dirty uncle best friend: beat up pajama pants, a shirt he'd grabbed at random hearing the shriek of tires through the phone line, and a pair of Fang Duobing's fucking sky blue Adidas slides he'd stolen as he'd bolted out the door.

"It's not that I want to criticize you, lao-Di," Li Lianhua says, critically, "but I told you to run that woman out of town as soon as humanly possible at least five times."

Di Feisheng, who's been provided pain medication and is angry about it, busies himself with glaring at the ceiling. 

"Now look at you," Li Lianhua goes on, like a bastard, "you've got a hairline fracture in your foot, you've got a broken leg, three cracked ribs, a low grade concussion, and also you're the top four trending tags on Weibo." 

That these are factual statements does not make Li Lianhua's continued, unwanted presence in Di Feisheng's hospital room any less insufferable. 

"Alliance Security CEO accident," Li Lianhua reads off his phone. "Alliance CEO car crash. Alliance CEO crazy girlfriend. Alliance CEO handsome." 

Di Feisheng's head lolls around so he can center a wild-eyed glare at Li Lianhua.

"Why are you here?" he asks through gritted teeth.

Li Lianhua squints at him. "Can you be considered human?" he demands. "There I was, enjoying my Saturday morning like a normal person—"

"You were calling me to complain that our CDN felt 'kind of slow,' like an asshole," Di Feisheng corrects.

"—and then I hear you yelling and the sounds of vehicular violence," Li Lianhua goes on. "Any person with a heart would be concerned."

"Fang Duobing made you come," Di Feisheng says.

"Fang Duobing made me come," Li Lianhua agrees.

"Well I'm not dead, so you can leave now," Di Feisheng mutters.

"'As someone who has also wanted to hit their boss with a car, but never truly had the courage, I respectfully acknowledge Jiao Liqiao as my master and will endeavor to serve her as a faithful student in all things,'" Li Lianhua reads, going back to scrolling through Weibo. "'I never want to know the truth or any details about why she did it. Just that she hit this beautiful mean-faced millionaire with a car is enough. I would die for her.'"  

Di Feisheng goes back to staring at the ceiling and begins to systematically reflect on the wrongs that have led to specific terrible moment. This begins with lingering resentment over college scheduling that had put him in a 9:30 programming basics class with Li Xiangyi and concludes with admitting that perhaps Fang Duobing had been right when he'd said, two years ago, "A'Fei, you can't just tell a woman it's fine if she's in love with you and that you guys can keep working together but that it's none of your business." But at that point, Fang Duobing was still the infant Li Xiangyi was fucking as some kind of weird post mental breakdown enrichment activity, and seemed like a poor source of professional counseling. In the years since, Di Feisheng can admit that while Fang Duobing continues to be an infant Li Xiangyi is fucking as a weird post mental breakdown enrichment activity, he has a sharp and nuanced emotional intelligence—as long as it has nothing to do with his profoundly repulsive attachment to Li Xiangyi. 

"Miss Jiao is going to get some truly staggering letters in jail," Li Lianhua observes with audible admiration in his voice. For not the first and likely not the last time, Di Feisheng swears never to answer another phone call or text message from this bastard again.  

"If you like her so much, you should hire her once she's served her time," he mutters through gritted teeth. The sharp edge of pain is starting to break through the drugs, but he feels clearer, sharper, less like he's trying to hear shouting through the rush of a flowing river. "Is there a reason you're still hanging around here?" 

Li Lianhua slants him a look, beaming with charity. "Now don't get shy, A'Fei—"

"Stop calling me A'Fei," Di Feisheng snaps.

"—I came in a DiDi, so Xiaobao is coming to pick me up," Li Lianhua finishes. "You'll be back to your peace and blessed quiet soon." 

Which is of course the precise moment that little treasure of Li Lianhua's pokes his abominably sunny little face into the doorway of the sickroom and declares, all smiles:

"Okay! I just finished with the nursing jiejies! They’re wrapping up your discharge paperwork and we should be able to take you home with us this afternoon.” 

“What,” Di Feisheng and Li Lianhua say.

#mysterious lotus casebook #fanfic #wip

[crowleys-bentley-and-plants]

Damaged

I dont think this is so much a poem as me just smashing words together to cope. im just trying to make sense of things. this is years and years of pieces of myself and of Crowley spilled over the screen. i might have taken it too far i mightve choked on the things i wanted to say but well it's done now so yeah. please proceed with caution this poem deals with self loathing and the such

-

How can you see beauty

In a broken thing like me?

For I am tainted, stained by sin

How can you love a crippled soul

That’s marked by scars too deep to hide?

Scorched and carved up and then spit out

By the place I once called my own

Forced to grow fangs and claws

To shield myself from the torment of my past

But now, I brush my hands against yours

And I leave a trail of scarlet upon your flesh

I've become the beast I feared

Struggling to recognize the reflection in the mirror

As it distorts 

Into a monstrous mask

Yet you hold me with gentle hands

As spiders spill from my eye sockets 

Falling on the ground that grows webs in their wake

Securing me in place

To ensure that I cannot escape

Myself

Yet you remain steadfast by my side

As my sharp branches that I call limbs

Ensnare your figure and pierce your sacred skin

I see the pain etched upon your face

And I curse myself for it

For this is how I love—

With claws that cut and fangs that maul

And no one should endure the love I give

For is it love, if it destroys

You?

Yet still, you stay,

A martyr, a sacrifice,

A holy fool

You see value where there is none

I am but a stain upon your purity

A blemish on your perfection

A poison coursing through your veins

A parasite feeding on your kindness

Venom oozes out of my wounds

Burying you alongside the echo of my being

I am a plague, spreading with every breath I take

The ruptured creature within

Will not stop until you collapse into my useless arms

Until we become one

And I would rue the day I first drew breath

The day She sculpted me out of fire

And left me there to burn

The day she imprisoned me in this vessel

Cursed me to crawl on broken legs

She never loved me—

How could She love a creation designed to falter?

Yet you do 

Despite my flaws?

So teach me, angel, if you dare

Show me that I’m not beyond repair

For I’m still damaged, in need of mending

How can I not be? Look at me

How can you love this misshapen thing I am

With jagged edges, dented thorns?

My mouth so rough, my wings all faulty

My eyes unable to perceive the light

My body, nothing but shards of broken glass

And my heart, a barren wasteland

My tongue slit, but what’s one more tear,

On my already fractured frame?

How can you love me

When I have forgotten

How to love myself?

-

ive never been more scared to post something. im gonna disappear from the face of the earth for a bit now

read it also on ao3:

hey my absolute favourite people of this site i hope you dont mind @crowleys-hips @bearthewhipsandscornsoftime @fearandhatred @ghostsparrow @eybefioro @seven-stars-in-his-palm @ficreader500 @crowleys-curl @crowleybrekkers @notagoodlad @lickthecowhappy @di-42 @goodoldfashionednightingale @spookyllamatree @wanderer-main @ineffabildaddy

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #good omens poem #good omens 2 #good omens season 2 #go2 #original poem

[ghost-n-butteredtoast]

Can I get a Miranda fic where Reader is having a terrible day and Miranda notices and decides to do something about it. Fluffy please and thank you 😁

Well...I am not fond of Miranda, so I find her difficult to write, but I welcome the opportunity because she and I are going to have to get to know one another in my RE8 AU fic soon. Soooooo... dear @geekyarmorel, I hope I have delivered enough fluff here. Thank you for the prompt! Enjoy!

The Assistant

Mother Miranda x Reader prompt Requested by : @geekyarmorel

She was so…promising.

Vitals were stable. No immediate mutations. You turned your back on the subject for only a short while and disaster strikes. Pure, bloody disaster. 

Immediately you are pinned to the cold floor of the lab by the test subject now turned moroaicǎ. Its newly formed fangs that have ripped from its gums drip black blood onto your face. It rears back, gearing to lunge at you once again, but cries out in pain, suddenly going rigid and falling to the floor beside you.

Your eyes are wide open in panic and shock, and there is a ringing in your ears that muffles the soothing voice coming from somewhere close by, but you can not see the source.

"Miran-MIRANDA?" You cry out as you try to sit up. Gravity and pain send you back to the floor and into a small, warm puddle with a sickening splat. The room goes black.

"Still yourself, my little hummingbird." Came a voice from your side.

You wake up in your bed and find Miranda in a chair next to your bedside. She places her journal on your nightstand and rises from her seat to inspect your wounds.

Your hand finds the back of your head and you wince. "No touching." She commands as she takes your hand away from your aching head. "A minor laceration, but one that required multiple stitches. The scalp bleeds so easily, quite the puddle of blood I found you in. You had me worried. Luckily you incurred no fractures."

"The test subject. It was exceeding my expectations and suddenly it mutated! I - I have failed you once again." You said, warm tears making their way into your hairline.

Taloned fingers lift your chin gently.  "You never fail me, my sweet."

"But Eva… I just hoped, that maybe this was the one. I want this so badly for you!"

Miranda removes her hand from your face and studies you. She had grown fond of you while you had worked under her watchful eye. But at those words, your words, she could not help but feel more for you than she had cared to admit. She thought you only had an interest in the science of it all, the process, not the actual purpose…bringing back Eva…for her.

Slowly, Miranda stands to blow out the candle on your bedside table, and removes her robes, revealing her alabaster skin and raven-black feathers. The light of the moon shines through the window and illuminates her form. She stands bare before you, offering herself completely.

"If you were to feel me, every inch, you will find not a single muscle nor drop of blood harboring disappointment in you, my love."

"M-my love?" You whispered, your heart nearly exploding.

You are in complete awe of the woman who stands before you; so powerful and vulnerable, and you find your hands aching to touch her. Never did you ever think she would love you. You slide out of bed and fall to your knees. You wrap your arms around her, your head resting on her lower abdomen, and you begin to weep.

"No." She insists, her taloned fingers taking your chin again. "Rise. You do not belong on your knees before me. Your devotion to me and to my cause, my Eva, proves you worthy of being eye to eye.”

Your hands never leave her soft skin as you make your way up off the floor and into her arms. Once there, she holds your trembling form and caresses the back of your head tenderly making sure not to upset your wound.

“There, there, my sweet hummingbird.” She cooes. “Save your tears for times of joy. We will resurrect Eva in time….together.”

#resident evil village #resident evil 8 #fanfiction #writing prompts #re8 mother miranda #mother miranda #mother miranda x reader

[revelisms]

The doctor has a touch like death: chempowder grit beneath the nails, corpse-cool and smooth as stone, prodding his throat like a butcher peeling through layers of rotted meat.

And perhaps that's what he feels like, laid flat on his table: his clothes soaked with sweat, his vision swimming in pink-black-blue. A buck waiting to be skinned. A fish half-gutted.

The fingerpads are too thin, too feeble. They reek not of tobacco, but parchment and must.

"Breathe, boy."

Silco's no boy—but hardly is he human, either, after the black depths he crawled himself out of: a wet womb of industrial filth, his City one with his veins, its slow decay as promised as his slow-shanked slow-bleeding black-shredded heart.

The damned organ beat stubbornly on: boat thrashing to the waves. It kept only a shell still-moving.

A thumb skirts down his pulse-point, and presses. The bruising twinges, simmers, aches. "Narrowly avoided a fracture," gruffs the vulture over him.

It takes two attempts to swallow. "Shall I count myself lucky?"

The words no longer belong to him. His voice lays repackaged beneath a cannibalistic fervor: the kind lent only to night-creatures that peel the flesh from the living and pick their teeth with the dead.

"Luck is that you can speak, at all." The touch eases. "Avoid it, for now."

Sensationless, half-blind, prickling, the doctor leaves him. In the stillness, his own hand stumbles across his clavicle: itches spindly fingers across the frayed collar of his linens, slops heavy-clammy-cold to the slope of his neck.

A pulse drums beneath his palm. His own body. Yes, Kindreds, his own wretched body.

Still alive.

His nails sink in.

Still alive.

Ease.

Still alive.

(And so is he. So is he. So is he.)

"Breathe, boy."

Air shudders from his throat. Shivers against the weight of his palm; his blood beating, beating, beating.

"How long?" he gristles out.

A rattle of metal at the wheeled tray. The doctor's stare skims over him, like a lick of heat from a pyre. "Yours is...a unique case. Some have lasted years. Most succumb, within months." But. But. "At the rate the infection is spreading—"

Beating, beating, beating.

"How long?"

As long as Vander is still living. As long as his knife still sits squeezed between his blood-tipped nails, scratched leather and steel, bone-handled ache. As long as there are still bones to pick his teeth with, hunger to fill, a vision he does not need two damned eyes to see: a glory, a rain of hellfire, a retribution, a need—

Their city's starvation in his veins. Their city's future, blazing in bilge-fire.

"Twice a day," the doctor mutters, a glass vial tacked to the table's edge. "Log your symptoms, every morning. Stay off the smoke."

Silco's thumb stutters beneath his jaw.

He's used to a life without answers. In the noxious wastes of the Sump, he made his peace with it.

This wraith doubts it.

"I won't die, doctor." A beast sears to life beneath his hand, dragon-fang, daggers in the words: grits off the walls, like a spirit's clawscratch. "I can't." Three octaves grappling for purchase: silk and stone and fire at his cheek.

But he will, one day. By Janna's blessing alone, he will.

(And so will he. So will he. So will he.)

silco and singed / low doses

#arcane #arcane ficlet #prose #writing #this era of pre-act 1 silco just hhdknng got me some typa way #silco #singed #vander #also technically #vanco #zaundads #back in the debilitating exes whumpzone (yet again)

[the-lonelybarricade]

We Bleed the Same - (2/?)

Summary: The forest was a labyrinth of snow and ice... The beginning to a story we know, unfolded a little bit differently.

A gift for @belabellissima for the @acotargiftexchange. You own my heart 💝

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter

-

Feyre was fourteen the first time she’d taken the life of another living creature.

A rabbit, not yet fully matured, a bit thin from winter. It had eyes like charcoal, round and darting with fear. Fear that Feyre had felt pumping through every squirming limb of its small body, desperate to cling to life regardless of how cruel it had been to the both of them.

Feyre had been prepared for the blood. She knew all living things bled. But the knife had slid through the rabbit’s throat with none of the resistance that should accompany the act of killing. It shouldn’t be easy—but it was. The rabbit went limp, and Feyre was left with the dreadful knowledge that she and the rabbit weren’t simply mortal. They were fragile.

The rabbit’s blood dribbled onto the snow in a stain that would linger despite the many storms that passed through the forest. Spring and summer and autumn and winter again, that first kill remained, the first bloom of hollowness in Feyre’s chest, weeping and spreading with every new winter like the ruby blood against the perfect white snow.

If only she could one day return to the girl she’d been before that first kill. The Feyre who had not killed the rabbit would be someone different, likely someone dead, but death sounded more ideal by the minute.

The Feyre who never killed that rabbit certainly would never have encountered this—a faerie beast the shape of a wolf and roughly the size of a horse, lodging its antlered head through the carnage of what used to be their front door. Its gummy lips pulled back to expose fangs the length of her thumb, and she knew they could cut through skin as easily as she had once slit that rabbit’s throat.

Narrowed jade green eyes swept across each of her family’s terror-stricken faces, and it was all Feyre could do not to stumble backwards from the sheer force of its roar as it bellowed, “MURDERERS!”

Feyre, iron poker braced in a closed fist, was all that stood between her family and the beast. She didn’t recall exactly how the cold, rusted metal had gotten into her hand. The first few moments of the beast’s arrival were a blur of fractured wood and screaming. All she knew was that she’d been consumed by the single-minded goal of putting a barrier between her family and the faerie.

Blistering cold cascaded into the room, biting into the metal at her palm. She wasn’t certain if the legend about the fae’s aversion to iron was even true. She should have asked Rhys—should have swallowed her pride and hired his protection, if only for the night.

She spared a glance over her shoulder. Her sisters were cowering against the wall of the hearth, their father now awake and crouched in front of them. He looked like he was preparing to become fodder to the beast’s claws if it gave Nesta and Elain a chance to run. Feyre swallowed down her hurt that no such protection, or care, was extended towards her. After all, she’d killed the faerie and inadvertently lured the beast here. It was only right that she bought her family time to escape.

Keeping the table between herself and the beast, Feyre ventured a step forward. Her eyes slid to the bow and quiver propped near the door, on the other side of the beast. She’d need to get around him to reach her ash arrow. And somehow buy herself time to fire it.

“MURDERERS!” The beast snarled again, hackles raised.

“P-please,” Feyre’s father babbled from behind. “Whatever we have done, we did so unknowingly—”

“It was me,” she interrupted, before either of her sisters could add to the hysterics and further invite the beast’s ire. She raised the iron poker defensively, slowly circling the table as she held the beast’s gaze.

Look at me. Focus on me. Forget about them.

If she could reach the door, she might be able to dart out, convince it to chase her and leave her family alone. Besides, it would be better to die in the woods. It would feel right. Repaying the blood she’d spilled in the forest again and again over the years, giving it back to the earth.

The beast’s cold eyes slid over her, startling jade against his golden fur and yellow teeth. “You lie,” he growled, head swiveling to narrow his gaze on her sobbing sisters. He sniffed, then curled his lips back to bear his sharp teeth. “To save them.”

“We didn’t kill anything!” Elain wept. “Please… please, spare us!”

Nesta hushed her sharply through her own sobbing, but pushed Elain farther behind her. Feyre’s chest caved in at the sight of it.

The beast’s hind legs lowered, muscles coiling as though preparing to launch himself right over Feyre and the kitchen table. Towards her sisters. No—no. She took another step forward, the glint of iron catching his attention as she brandished it higher.

“It was a wolf,” she said, desperate. “Grey coat. Yellow eyes. I killed him.”

He bellowed in response, and the entire cottage shook. Plates and cups rattled against one another. He pressed a giant paw onto the table, and it groaned beneath his weight. Feyre’s eyes darted to his long, vicious claws as they embedded into the wood, one by one.

“You.” He surveyed Feyre again, and she knew he was taking in her gaunt face, her thin arms. Thin, but still stronger than her frail sisters and injured father. She hoped he could notice that much through his anger. “How?”

It was less of a question and more of a demand.

She stared into those jade eyes and squared her shoulders. “An ash arrow.” She wouldn’t let her eyes flicker to the bow in the corner of her vision. “I didn’t—” I didn’t know, but that was a lie. She’d known what it was when she’d released her drawstring. “What payment can we offer in exchange?”

The beast pushed closer, snarling teeth drawing inches from her face. His hot breath curled over her cheeks. “The payment you must offer is the one demanded by the Treaty between our realms.”

Rhys hadn’t mentioned anything about the Treaty. She knew one existed, an agreement between humans and faeries drafted long ago. If recollection served, it had been written after the War that had liberated humans from faerie rule, resulting in the Wall that was raised to protect humankind. Feyre had vague memories of being read the Treaty during her childhood lessons, but could recall nothing about wolves.

But there was one childhood lesson Feyre had not forgotten: faeries couldn’t lie. They were all taught that an ancient magic bound the words of the fae, preventing them from uttering an untruth. Though faeries were experts at manipulating the truth with crafty, clever sentences, it meant there must be some validity to the beast’s claim, some clause in the Treaty that she couldn’t remember or which had simply been lost to time.

Dread sunk heavily in her chest, which was only worsened by the proximity of his teeth, inching so close to her face that Feyre could see the firelight gleaming against his canines. If those teeth lunged for her throat, would her family still try to fight?

She knew—with a sudden clarity—that Nesta would buy Elain time to run. She wouldn’t do the same for their father, whom Nesta had always resented with her entire, steely heart. Nor would she try to help Feyre, because Nesta had always known and hated that they were two sides of the same coin and that Feyre could fight her own battles. But Elain, the flower-grower, the gentle heart. Nesta would be dragged onto Death’s doorstep scratching and clawing for Elain. And if Feyre could buy them enough time, she could trust that Nesta would find a way to get Elain far, far away from here.

Though she already suspected the answer, Feyre didn’t need to feign the shake in her voice as she asked, “What is the payment the Treaty requires?”

His eyes didn’t leave her face, holding himself still even as she raised the poker towards his throat. “A life for a life. Any unprovoked attacks on faerie-kind by humans are to be paid only by a human life in exchange.”

Nesta and Elain quieted their weeping. How had Rhys neglected to mention that?

It won’t take long for its kind to come sniffing.

What name might I inquire to ensure you’re still alive in a week’s time?

Maybe he had. Not explicitly, but he warned her they’d be coming. That the choice she’d made in that forest would court death. Had he been generous with his coin to give her a fighting chance or because he planned to take it off her corpse once this faerie left Feyre and her family in ribbons?

“They had nothing to do with it. Kill me if the Treaty demands, but let them live.” Feyre wasn’t brave enough to look over her shoulder. If there was any trace of relief in their expressions, she’d prefer to die without seeing it. “But… not here.” Not where her family would have to wash away the blood and gore. “Do it outside.”

The faerie huffed a vicious laugh. He opened his mouth, but then his eyes lifted over her shoulder. And Feyre flinched as a bony hand closed over her arm.

“P-please, good sir—Feyre is my youngest. I beseech you to spare her. She is all… she is all…” Whatever her father meant to say died in his throat as the beast roared again, blowing damp heat into their faces.

“Silence,” the creature snapped.

To her father’s credit, he didn’t recoil from the bared teeth, though his eyes fixed on the trail of saliva connecting the beast’s upper teeth to his lower jaw. Her father swallowed, hard. “I can get gold—”

The beast sneered. “How much is your daughter’s life worth to you? Do you think it equates to a sum?”

Her father didn’t have a response to that. Feyre glanced over her shoulder, staring past his cowering frame to meet Nesta’s eyes. She still held Elain behind her, whose coloring now matched the snow drifting in from the open door. Nesta’s expression said she knew father’s answer, even if he didn’t say it.

It was to Nesta that Feyre said, “The venison should hold you for two weeks. Start on the fresh meat, then work your way through to the jerky—you know how to make it.”

“Feyre—” father breathed, but she recoiled from his touch, taking a step away from him and the beast. Toward the door.

She continued, “I left the money from the pelts on the dresser. It will last you for a time, if you’re careful. When spring comes, hunt in the groves just south of the big bend in Silverspring Creek—the big rabbits make their warrens there. Ask… ask Isaac Hale to show you how to make snares. I taught him last year.”

Nesta nodded, her face cold and unrelenting. There was no sorrow in her eyes, no gratitude, but for once there was no hatred, either. Just a shared understanding that they would both do whatever was necessary to ensure that Elain survived.

“Whatever you do,” Feyre added quietly, “Don’t marry Tomas Mandray. His father beats his wife, and none of his sons do anything to stop it.”

Her eldest sister stiffened but said nothing—both of them said absolutely nothing—as Feyre turned toward the open door, ignoring her father weakly calling after her. The beast eased off the dining table to follow, and any lingering hope she had of fighting died as he moved to the quiver beside the door, sniffed, and snapped the arrows in half with a violent swipe of his paw.

Feyre’s fingers had gone stiff around the iron poker. He didn’t demand she put it down, even as she walked into the night-shrouded winter. His lack of reaction told her all she needed about its effectiveness, but it was a creature comfort in her palm, like the ward markings and the protective bracelets around her sisters’ wrists.

Snow crunched underfoot as the beast led her into the woods. It was good, she thought, that he’d be doing it away from the house. By morning, the snow will have buried whatever was left of her that the creatures of the wood didn’t pick apart. Her family would never need to see the evidence. And one day, perhaps not very far in the future, Nesta’s cruel words would be true. There would be no one left to remember that she had ever existed.

She didn’t dare glance back at the cottage, terrified of what she’d find. If she turned her head, would it be worse to see her family standing outside to watch, or to learn that they were still huddled inside? It was better not to know as she kept her eyes trained toward the line of trees, every step too swift, too light, too soon carrying her to whatever torment and misery awaited.

“There’s another way,” the beast said as they entered the woods. Darkness beckoned beyond. “The Treaty states that Prythian must claim your life in some way, for the life you took from it. So as a representative of the immortal realm, I can either gut you here, or… you can cross the wall and live out the remainder of your days in Prythian.”

Feyre blinked. “What?”

He said slowly, “You can either die tonight, or offer your life to Prythian by living in it forever, forsaking the human realm.”

Feyre thought she’d be better off dying tonight than living in pure terror across the Wall, where she’d doubtlessly meet her end in a more gruesome way.

“I have lands,” the faerie said quietly—almost reluctantly. “I will grant you permission to live there.”

And it was a fool’s question, but she had already followed him into the woods, already consented to die. She couldn’t help blurting, “Why bother?”

“You have the nerve to question my generosity?”

Yes, she thought. Because it didn’t make sense. She had murdered his kind, without remorse or provocation. And she could not understand a life in Prythian, on his lands, that would treat her tolerably for what she had done.

But even if misery awaited her…

At least it meant she would survive, and maybe one day find the chance to escape. As long as the faeries couldn’t find her again, they couldn’t hold her to the Treaty. She opened her mouth, prepared to accept his mercy. But then the beast’s ears flickered, and a moment later, she heard a pair of boots crushing snow on the other side of the thicket. The beast snarled in warning, circling around Feyre almost protectively.

And then he appeared.

Her eyes strained to see the figure dressed in black, blending like ink into the shadows. Even as he stepped into the moonlight, the night clung to him, obscuring half his face. But that was all she needed to catch the tilt of his lips, the gleam in his violet eye. She couldn’t contain her gasp of recognition.

Rhys kept his attention trained on the beast. She didn’t register the crossbow in his hands until he raised it to his face, its iron bow a streak of silver against the mantle of darkness at his back.

“High Lord,” he crooned to the beast, inclining his head slightly.

The earth tilted beneath her. High Lord. Not just any beast, or representative of Prythian, as he had called himself, but a High Lord who ruled one of its seven territories. A creature of unprecedented power, capable of sundering their meager village with half a thought.

She did not know how Rhys knew, if there was some marking on the beast that gave it away. Perhaps the elf-like horns that protruded from its head, or a power radiating from him that she had not learned how to sense.

The beast’s claws curled into the snow, digging up clumps of dirt. His voice was laced with the promise of violence as he growled, “Rhysand.”

Her blood ran cold. This was not the first time Rhys had encountered this High Lord. The implications were mind-whirling—that Rhysand, a human mercenary, had once stared down a High Lord and lived to tell the tale. Had made such an impression that the beast would sneer his full name as if it was poisoned.

At least now she knew Rhys hadn’t been lying when he told her his name.

Rhysand smiled, heartbreaking in its beauty. His bolt remained trained at the beast’s head as his gaze slid to Feyre, eying her for any sign of injury. His eyes seemed to scream, play along, as he purred, “What a pretty prize you’ve captured. Intend to smuggle her across the wall, do you?”

“Leave, Rhys,” the beast commanded, positioning himself in front of Feyre the same way she had shielded her sisters in the cabin. Like in this situation, Rhys was the one threatening her safety. “This doesn’t concern you.”

The mercenary ignored him in favor of nodding at the iron poker in Feyre’s hand. “That won’t do you any good, I’m afraid. The only thing that can cause any real harm is ash.” Ash, like the wooden bolt loaded in his crossbow, if she had to guess. Her fingers tightened around the handle regardless. “If you were wise, you would be screaming and running while we’re distracted.”

He held her eyes, willing her to understand. Wind howled through the trees, whistling in her vacant mind. Run—she understood that much, though she doubted she’d make it far in the woods without her cape, which she left in the cottage, thinking she was walking to her death. Already, frosted air crept beneath her thin tunic, biting at her exposed skin. It didn’t help that she had a death grip on a piece of icy metal…

Oh.

“You have seconds, Rhys,” the beast warned.

Rhysand’s eyes gleamed with feral delight. “Is that so?”

The High Lord bristled at the arrogance, the utter irreverence of a human standing before one of the most powerful beings in existence. Feyre wished she could summon even an ounce of that courage as she watched the beast’s lithe body coil with wrath, signaling every mortal instinct in her body to flee. His lips curled back into a deadly snarl, one that promised the mercenary was moments away from greeting Death with that charming smile. Surely one ash bolt was not enough to subdue a High Lord of Prythian.

It didn’t matter. If Rhys wanted to invite his rage to give her time to run, he could be her guest. His taunting meant the High Lord was so focused on Rhysand, he didn’t bother to monitor his quarry. And Feyre was so thin, so small compared to the beast’s horse-like stature, that it likely hadn’t occurred to him to treat her as a threat. She wouldn’t let the oversight go to waste.

Her eyes met Rhysand’s, raising the poker to communicate her intentions. With the beast’s focus, the mercenary didn’t dare nod. But she could see the understanding that crossed his expression. They might only be delaying the inevitable, but at least they could give each other a fighting chance.

Feyre wrapped both hands around the poker, ignoring how her body trembled as she raised it over her shoulder—the way those debtors had done all those years ago, when she’d watched them cripple her father with a similar weapon. Air whipped against the iron as she brought it down, and the sound gave the beast enough warning that he turned, allowing her to strike him across his face.

Just as Rhysand had warned, the iron had no effect—besides redirecting the High Lord’s anger towards her. The reverberation of the strike sent her stumbling backward, but not fast enough to avoid the slash of his unforgiving paw. Sharp nails collided with her shoulder, and her body flew back from the sheer force. Feyre thought she might have been briefly airborne before she landed, hard, and skidded several feet in an eruption of snow.

Pain seared through the entire left side of her body, as if it had been plunged in flame, and she struggled to regain the breath that had been knocked from her lungs. She was too disoriented to see what happened, but she knew Rhys must have taken advantage of the beast’s momentary distraction, because she heard the distant snap of the crossbow firing, the resulting roar.

Then, a pair of sturdy hands grasped Feyre from under the arms, pulling her upright. “You’re okay,” Rhys breathed, despite how she hissed at the subtle movement. She knew she was bleeding, and she wasn’t yet brave enough to glance at her mauled skin to gauge just how lethal her injury was. “You did good.”

Feyre tried to peer behind him, searching for the beast. Was he dead? A High Lord taken out by just one measly ash bolt?

“We have to run,” he said, answering her unspoken question.

Given that she could hardly stand on her own, her chances of outrunning a High Lord weren’t very promising. But before she could protest, or plead for him not to leave her behind, Rhysand was scooping an arm beneath her knees and lifting her to his chest as if she weighed nothing at all. She supposed she couldn’t be much heavier than the equipment a mercenary usually carried.

“Just hold on,” he said.

Then the world became a blur of darkness. Maybe it was the blood loss going to her head, but she swore the world warped around them as he ran. Snow and shadow swirled together, roaring past. The forest fell away, and only Rhys remained, gripping her tightly as she clung to him. Like she very well might fall through the earth if he let go.

Eventually, the darkness stopped churning, and Rhys slowed to a stop in front of a stone guardhouse. It was attached to a towering wall that rose in either direction, so high that she had to crane her neck to spy the spikes jutting from its top.

“Where are we?”

Rhysand nodded to the twelve guards standing at the gate, as if he knew them. They were all armed, their faces hidden beneath thick helmets. Their bodies were equally covered in plated armor, right down to their boots. At Rhysand’s approach, the gates they were protecting split open, revealing a sprawling darkness in every direction. Farmland, Feyre realized. Fields and pastures as far as she could see, protected within the safety of the high walls. And somewhere beyond, visible in the night only by the warmth glowing through its slit windows, was a large stone fortress.

“I told you I’ve been employed by a local lord,” Rhys murmured, walking down the long, frozen road towards the keep in the distance. “I knew the fae would come back for you. So after meeting you in the market, I spoke with him, and Lord Nolan decided to grant your family sanctuary.”

Lord Nolan… A familiar name, perhaps one that graced the social circles her family used to run in, before they’d lost their fortune. She would be wary of the unusual generosity another time. For now—

“My family,” she whispered, clutching his shirt into a fist. “Rhys—my family! We have to go back.”

Rhys met her eyes, and the look he gave her was so disarming that Feyre smoothed her palm over his chest. His sternum rose and fell against her fingers, steady despite the running. And if she concentrated, she could feel his heart thrumming beneath his skin, not nearly as erratic as her own.

“They’re already here,” he soothed.

Her brows drew together, and she shook her head, refusing to be lied to, manipulated—

He chuckled at her expression. “You think I came alone? I’m flattered you think I’m so capable. There was a group of us. We came to your cottage first, found your family trembling in the wreckage. Then we saw the tracks leading into the woods. The others assumed you were dead and didn’t want to risk the men to confirm it.”

“You came after me by yourself?”

Flakes of drifting snow landed on his hair, melting before she could marvel at the fragile beauty of it. But his smile, quiet with admiration—that stayed long enough to tempt her to cling to the waking world, even as darkness lurked in her periphery, promising relief from the pain.

“A little huntress like you? I knew you wouldn’t be dead.”

Feyre wasn’t sure why that made her eyes sting. No one else had been willing to come after her, not even her family. But this stranger she’d met in the marketplace, this lunatic… She bit her lip, knowing the blood loss must truly be getting to her as she sniffed, grateful she could blame her runny nose on the cold.

“Feyre,” she whispered. “My name’s Feyre.”

The mercenary paused in his step. He looked down at her, lips parting open. Up close, she thought the moonlight softened his eyes, its reflection a glimmer of starlight against the roiling violet sky.

“Pretty name,” he said, softer than she’d heard his voice before. “It suits you.”

Pretty. He was starting to make a habit of calling her that. She was too exhausted for the shyness to creep in, and any blood that might have rushed to her cheeks was too busy spilling from her arm and shoulder. She only sighed, resting her head against his chest. His body was hard and warm, her only comfort against the pressing cold.

“Speaking of names,” she mumbled, eyes fluttering shut as she breathed in the scent of rain and salt and citrus. “How did the beast know yours?”

Rhysand began moving again. “You could say my job has made me well known in Prythian.”

Feyre let herself sag into his hold. She hadn’t realized how heavy her body had become until she stopped trying to lift it. And now that she’d shut her eyes, the simple act of prying them open was exhausting. With an exerting amount of effort, she managed to get them half-lidded, peering at him as she asked dryly, “Renown for saving maidens?”

“Well, all those stories about handsome, roguish heroes needed to be inspired by someone, hmm?”

She must have closed her eyes again, must have dozed, because the next time she peered between her lashes, she watched Rhys lower her onto a bed, golden sconces flickering behind his head. His knuckles skimmed a trail of heat over her cheekbone, and it was too much effort to resist the urge to lean into his touch.

“Sleep, Feyre,” he said, the velvet of his voice lapping over her, a gentle tide coaxing her back into that deep, warm abyss. A comfortable weight settled over her, accompanied by the smell of citrus and the sea, beaconing her down, down, down. She followed without resistance, trusting his honey-laced words as he promised, “You’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

#We Bleed the Same #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar gift exchange

[ashspecter]

Hey there! I took me a bit but I picked out another writing prompt idea. No AGIT spoilers here!

His evil future counterpart escaping the thermos is the stuff of Danny’s nightmares, and to his terror, it eventually happens. Except the last thing this Phantom seems to remember is Vlad putting him to sleep with promises to take the pain away.

Thank you so much for the request (and for no spoilers)! I appreciate it!

Summary:

When Danny’s evil future self escapes the thermos, he fears the worst. However, something happens and Danny finds himself face-to-face with a fractured version of himself in need of a second chance.

Words: 1944 Read on Ao3 or below the cut!

Second Chances

He had known this moment would come, dreaded it even, yet he couldn’t deny the surge of adrenaline that coursed through him as his worst fear unfolded before his eyes. The eerie green mist unfurls from the thermos, coiling and billowing like serpentine tendrils. It makes his race with a mixture of dread and anticipation. His future counterpart, a twisted and malevolent version of himself, breaks free from the confines of the thermos.

The chill that runs down his spine seems to seep into his very soul as he watches the spectral form take shape within the swirling mist. His snow-white hair, tied back into a ponytail, flickers with an otherworldly flame causing a striking contrast against his pale blue skin and his eyes burn with a fiery red intensity. Pointed ears, sharp fangs, and a goatee complete his visage, each feature a twisted reflection of Danny’s own. This is the embodiment of all his fears and insecurities, a twisted reflection of what he would have become if Clockwork never stepped in to help him fix his mistake.

As Danny gazes upon his future self, he can’t help but feel a sense of dread settle in the pit of his stomach. He feels nauseous. The thermos is only a few feet away. If he could get to it, he can seal away this monster-version of himself. But he can’t seem to move.

Dan blinks, then squints. A look of confusion and bewilderment that washes over his face, startling Danny even more somehow. Does he know where he is? Does he remember being sealed away?

There’s no trace of themalicious grin Danny had anticipated and his eyes seem to lose their intensity as the Phantom’s posture slackens. He looks tired and almost as though he’s awakening from a long slumber— a stark contrast to the cunning and calculated demeanor that Danny had remembered seeing when he first faced this brute.

The Phantom’s movements are hesitant, as if he’s trying to make sense of his surroundings and grasping for fragmented memories that slip through his spectral fingers like trickling water. Danny knits his brows together as he studies his once formidable adversary. Is this the same benevolent being he fought all those months ago? It can’t be. He appears almost… vulnerable. 

A pang of empathy tugs at Danny’s conscience as his heart pounds in his ears. Despite the havoc and destruction his future self had caused, there’s a part of Danny that can’t help but see the lost and tormented soul trapped within the ghostly shell before him. Yet, even as compassion flickers within him, Danny understands the danger of underestimating this foe. Whatever vulnerabilities the Phantom may possess now, Danny knows they are fleeting, overshadowed by the potential for chaos and destruction that lies dormant within him.

“Dan?” He questions, voice somehow steady despite the panic still seizing down his spine.

“Dan?” The Phantom echoes, “No, it’s Danny…” He sways slightly and stumbles backward, knocking into the podium that once held the thermos, and slides to the floor. He brings a hand to his face as if to tame a headache and releases a low pain-filled groan.

Danny stares at him, every muscle tense and ready to defend himself against whatever attack may come. But as the seconds drag into minutes, he begins to think that perhaps no attack is coming at all. A very stupid thought despite the relief spreading through his core. He shifts, finally finding the ability to move once again.

He wants to let down his guard, but knowing Dan and seeing the wreckage he had caused both in his own timeline and what he almost caused in the current one before Clockwork set everything right, made the boy-ghost wary. He doesn’t want anything to repeat. He doesn’t want to go through any of that again.

“Are you… okay?” Danny ventures cautiously, his voice finally betraying a hint of uncertainty. He mentally kicks himself. Of all things to ask, why that?

The Phantom lifts his gaze, locking eyes with Danny in a way that makes him tense up all over again. There’s a flicker of recognition, a glimmer of something familiar buried deep within his haunted eyes. Then it fades, leaving only a shadow of a thought.

“I don’t— I don’t know,” The Phantom murmurs, his voice wavering, “Everything’s… foggy.”

Danny watches him closely, torn between his instinct to fight and his growing sense of pity. This isn’t the ruthless adversary he remembers. This is someone lost and struggling to make sense of a reality that is seeping through their fingers like water. He needs help.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Danny asks, inching ever-so-slightly closer. He tries to appear as calm as he can for both himself and the ghost sitting before him.

The Phantom’s brow furrows in concentration as he struggles to piece together the fragments of his broken memory. “Vlad… Vlad was there,” he mumbles, his voice strained with effort. “He said he’d help… he’d help take away the pain.”

Vlad. Of course. The name sends a surge of anger coursing through Danny’s veins. He mentally facepalms. Why hadn’t he remembered what had happened when he visited and gotten stuck in that timeline? Vlad had been one of the largest causes to the current issue. He knows his godfather’s manipulative tendencies all too well, and he refuses to let his former nemesis continue to control and manipulate his future self whether he’s from this timeline or not.

“Do you know who I am?” Danny presses, hoping to find a thread of familiarity in the tangled mess of the Phantom’s mind.

Dan hesitates, his gaze searching Danny’s face, “You’re… you are familiar,” He admits, uncertainty lacing his words, “But I... I don’t remember much.”

His future self is still disoriented and struggling to make sense of his memories. Danny has the upper hand. What is he supposed to do? He can and should seal his future self away once more and forget about him. But how can he? Especially now that his fear has been proven? Danny’s heart sinks. His future self has no idea what is going on. He doesn’t remember all the damage he has caused. He could have a second chance… just like Vlad… He has the possibility to be good this time around.

Finally, Danny exhales as Clockwork’s words echo through his mind:

“You’ve given everyone else in your life a second chance, why give yourself one as well?”

He glances back at his future self and offers him a hand. There is a possibility that the Phantom is faking this whole thing, but Danny finds that hard to believe. Plus, he can’t ignore that this is still someone in need— someone that needs help. This version of himself may have made terrible choices, but he’s still a part of Danny. Danny can’t abandon him.

“We can figure this out,” Danny says, his voice firm, “Whatever happened to you, we’ll fix it. Together.”

The Phantom looks up at Danny, a flicker of hope mingled with confusion in his eyes. It’s a glimmer of vulnerability that Danny recognizes all too well, a reflection of his own struggles and uncertainties with everything that is going on in his life. His future self hesitantly accepts his hand, allowing Danny to pull him from the ground.

As they stand together in Long Now, Danny feels the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. How is he going to explain this to Clockwork or anyone else? No one remembers Dan or what he did, other than himself and Clockwork, but that’s besides the point. And simply locking away his future self again won’t solve the overarching problem.

He exhales in an attempt to release the tension in his form. It doesn’t work. There’s too much to think about and act on all at once that his mind feels as though it’s tripping over itself. What does he do?

He isn’t sure.

There’s a huge issue that has been at play since he first learned about the future that he becomes Dan Phantom. It’s been a huge burden since Dan first made his way into the past. It’s the realization that every choice he makes has a consequence that not only shapes who he himself becomes but everyone else around him as well.

He glances up at his alternate self and cocks his head to the side. He can’t help feeling a sense of urgency overcome him. There’s no time to waste dwelling on the past or wallowing in regrets. The future is uncertain, just as it has always been, and every moment brings new challenges and new opportunities such as now. And as much as Danny fears the potential chaos this version of himself could unleash, he can’t ignore that he also needs help.

“We’ll put you back together again,” He declares, letting a grin spread across his face, “Together.”

His future self looks at him with a mixture of uncertainty and… something else? Hope, perhaps? It’s unmistakably etched in the furrow of his brow and depths of his eyes. It’s a faint beacon of light in the midst of darkness.

Danny can tell he is struggling with piecing things together. He can see the doubt that comes with being a soul adrift in a sea of fragmented memories and grappling with the task of piecing together a shattered identity. It’s a fragile moment, but it speaks volumes.

“What if… I can’t be fixed?” The Phantom’s voice is a whisper sounding very much unlike his usual.

Danny lets his shoulders relax upon hearing those words. He knows the pain that Dan is going through. It bugs him. But it also allows him to see himself and the echoes of his own fears and doubts staring back. He’s still in there. Even if it is like peering into a fractured mirror. He’s still Danny.

 He knows the road ahead won’t be easy, but he refuses to give in to fear. With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Danny reaches out, his hand extended in a silent gesture of solidarity and support, “We’ll figure it out.”

His future self hesitates, uncertainty flickering in his eyes like a wavering flame. For a moment, it seems as if he might retreat and succumb to the darkness that threatens to consume him once more. But then, with a tremulous exhale, he reaches out, his hand trembling as it meets Danny’s in a tentative clasp.

In this moment of connection, Danny feels a surge of hope swell within him, pushing back against the shadows that threaten to engulf them both. This is Dan’s second chance. He refuses to let anyone, least of all himself, squander this opportunity for redemption.

As Danny stands there, hand in hand with his future self, a surge of determination courses through him, drowning out the whispers of doubt and fear in the back of his mind. This is their second chance, a chance to rewrite their destinies, to forge a new path forward unburdened by the mistakes of the past. Screw the observers. Screw fate.

“We won’t waste this chance,” Danny affirms, “We’ll make things right, whatever it takes.”

His future self nods in silent agreement, a glimmer of determination shining in his eyes. It’s a small victory but it fills Danny with renewed resolve. They may not have all the answers, and the road ahead may be long and fraught with challenges, but they can find a new path in which everyone has a second chance. And with that hope guiding their way, Danny knows that they will prevail, no matter what trials may come their way.

#dp_marvel94 #danny phantom #writing request #danny phantom fanfiction #request fic #danny fenton #dan phantom #vlad masters #clockwork

[sareenademon]

Little Bireena WIP

"Are you hurt?" Bi Han asked her, his gaze focused on the slight limp she exhibited since their battle with Dramin and Moloch.

"I'm fine," Sareena replied, she shot him a false smile. She despised the vulnerability that came with her human form. It was beautiful, yes, but it also made her weaker and more susceptible to wounds.

Bi Han remained unconvinced and took a step toward her. "Let me see," he insisted, a rare soft concern in his tone that caught Sareena off guard. She acquiesced and sat on the nearest rock, showing him her bruised leg.

Crouching before her, Bi Han's cold hands made her flinch as they touched her hot skin. He quickly apologized, and Sareena felt her heart flutter as he gently examined the large bruise. She watched him with fascination, realizing that those strong hands, which could bring destruction, also had the power to heal. Bi Han began to use his cryomancy to ice the wound

"It's nothing serious, but you may have a small fracture," he said, breaking the silence. "We can rest here for a while. We both need to be at our strongest if we want to defeat your masters."

Bi Han looked up from her leg and found her shiny black eyes locked onto him, a subtle smile playing on her lips, revealing a fang. "What?" he asked awkwardly.

Sareena's smile widened. "Oh, nothing," she replied, her voice warm. "I never anticipated that the fearsome Sub Zero could be so gentle."

Bi Han was grateful that his mask hid his reddening cheeks as her gaze lingered on him. He scoffed quietly at her teasing. “Do not get used to it.”

#bi han #sareena #bireena #sub zero #mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #noob saibot #kuai liang

[all-my-writings-and-musings]

Fair warning, this one is packed with ANGST! In my mind it has a happy ending, but you can interpret it however you wish!

Day 5: Death

Macaque x Reader

He'd known it would happen, it always did with mortals, and even if it wasn't supposed to happen like this he would have thought he'd be more prepared than this…

Yet here he was, cradling your motionless form, desperately looking for any sign of life as he screamed your name and allowed hot tears to surge down his cheeks. His heart felt like it was shattering in his chest, your motionless form refusing to even stir in his arms. A strangled yell tore itself from his throat while all the thoughts of what could have been threatened to fracture his very being.

He hadn't been strong enough, hadn't been quick enough, hadn't been enough of anything… From the day the two of you met he knew he'd only be trouble for you, why hadn't he listened to himself? You'd both be so much better off…

Tears fell onto your face from his, wiping away some of the grit left by the attack that had struck you down. 

"I'm sorry…" he croaked, cradling your head in his shaking hands. Some part of him, some weak and stupid and foolish part, wanted to hope you might still be alive. Perhaps the hit had only knocked you out, and there was still a flicker of life in the heart that had stolen his…

But he was never that lucky.

A cackle at his back evaporated the tears on his cheeks, the demon that had been hunting the two of you obviously delighting in the scene before them.

"Don't worry, you'll be joining them soon enough." they mocked from the sky above. His ears caught the whistle of a magical projectile hurtling his way, much like the one he'd failed to stop before. Rage like nothing he'd ever known filled every corner of his being, blinding him to the pain as he threw up an arm to deflect the attack as if it were nothing more than an insect. A nearby plateau was split when it took the ricochet.

"No, I won't be." he said cooly, laying you down as if you were merely sleeping. Clenching his fists at his sides, he turned away from you, what remained of his heart crumbling to dust. Power thrummed through him as easily as blood, crackling along his battered limbs until it overflowed and made the air simmer. His foe blanched, perhaps realizing the weight of their mistake as the mountain below started to shift, coming up by its very roots as the world around him became just as broken as he was.

There was some small justice in what was about to happen. You'd get another chance, or end up somewhere better, but him… he had other plans. In the span of an instant he had the demon by the throat, his fangs bared for the world as he made his final vow.

"But I will be taking you with me."

#lego monkie kid #mactober #lmk #monkie kid #lmk macaque #six eared macaque #lmk x reader #self insert #human reader #angst #character death #tw #macaque #mk macaque #monkie kid macaque #lmk macaque x reader #macaque x reader #the six eared macaque #six eared macaque x reader #reqs open

[sunshinemarauder]

what would you do?

what would you do? (AO3)

written for @thegobletofweasleys's Jily Week 2023 day one (it's still technically july 31st where I am, I swear)! fluff/angst day, because this fandom needs a laugh every now and then. gifted to the lovely lovely @kay-elle-cee <3 playlist here!

James has always thought that Lily Evans looks exceptionally breathtaking when she’s angry.

It’s the sort of thought that he keeps shamefully locked-away in a crevice of his mind with all his other foolish Evans-induced blatherings. He wouldn’t dare say it aloud in front of his own mates, let alone Evans herself. After all, he hardly needs to hand her more reasons to dislike him. The post-OWLs incident sends a miserable shiver down his spine every time he recalls it.

Right now, the intensity in Lily’s bright green eyes, staring him down with enough force to bore a hole through his Quidditch gear, reminds him of the fiery expressions she’d worn that were precursors to all their fights last year. 

They would all begin this way: he, a bumbling prat desperate for her attention, would say something thoughtless to garner a reaction from her. Evans, prouder than a Hippogriff and sharper than a Basilisk fang, would take the bait immediately, eyes flashing with affront, and volley a creative insult his way. James would comfort himself with the thought that she never seemed to mean her insults seriously; every so often he'd catch her hiding a smile as they parted, and sometimes he could coax the occasional laugh out of her.  

But since the beginning of their sixth year, things have been different between him and Lily Evans. They’re friendly, sort of, and rarely argue these days, but it’s tenuous. Fracturable. He inevitably seems to screw up every normal conversation they have and leave an awkward tension in his wake.

Today, as Lily stares him down with an intensity he hasn't seen from her in months, James hasn't a clue what he said to garner such a strong reaction from her. 

He had been heading to the Quidditch locker room for a quick shower post-practice when Evans — an occasional spectator at their team drills, thanks to her friendship with the Gryffindor Beater, Marlene — had fallen into step with him. He immediately straightened to his full height, hyper-aware of her presence beside him. 

James, as always, is desperate to impress her.

Thankfully, she hadn't seemed to notice his apprehension. She struck up a conversation about their assignments, which soon devolved into James waxing poetic on NEWT-level Transfiguration theorems. It marked the longest civil conversation he’d had with Lily Evans in ages, and he’d thought it was going swimmingly — he was just starting to tell her about tutoring younger kids in remedial Transfiguration essentials — when she abruptly stopped walking, placed her hands on her hips, and fixed him with that fiery, indignant look he’s come to both yearn for and shrink from over the years.

Now, James gulps. Shit. What had he done now? 

“You know, Potter,” Evans begins innocuously, but her eyes flash in his direction and James knows he’s in seriously deep water. “Sometimes I have no idea what to make of you.” 

James stares blankly. 

“You can be such a prat, you know, when you go around hexing people for the fun of it and acting like you’re the king of the castle. Sometimes I want to—” and here she starts getting agitated, her pale cheeks reddening rapidly: “—to shove your head down a toilet and leave you there until all that arrogance seeps out of your stupidly large skull.” 

His heart drops instantly. He’s only half-aware that the rest of the team is long-gone into the showers, and that it’s been only him and Evans for several minutes now. 

He thinks: arrogant, bullying toe-rag.  

“But sometimes,” Lily continues in a way that he can’t describe in any way other than heated, and then says: “Sometimes I want to cut off all your air circulation.” 

That’s typical, James thinks, picturing her hands locked around his throat, staring him down with that scorching stare as he slowly perishes. 

Then: “With my mouth on your mouth.” 

His brain flatlines. 

continue reading

#jily week 2023 #james potter #lily evans #jily #jily fanfiction #jily fic #kat recs #my stuff #extremely self-indulgent fluff i've got for you today fam #this summer has been fun and i wrote a surprisingly decent amount BUT #don't know how much more i can write consistently because shit has hit the fan and i am Busy

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 8: Free Fall

Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendant. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.

Word Count: 6.8k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}

Pet spawn?

Unrestrained laughter erupts from your lips at Elowyn’s overt taunting. This snake has made the doltish mistake of thinking that she can manipulate you through her callous words. She believes you to be a blind fool, but you see her goading for what it is, and you will not be baited as if you’re a starving animal being offered food on a silver platter.

She’s been trying to exploit my weakness for Astarion all along.

Elowyn’s face deforms into a bewildered mess that makes her usually gossamer features vanish. She smooths down her silky green dress with a restless hand. Those beaming sapphire eyes try to drill through your unyielding gaze, and she doubles down on her efforts to spur you on.

“Sugar doesn’t believe she’s your pet, Astarion,” she throws her head back with mocking, frosted laughter echoing into the night, “How adorable.”

“I know what you’re doing, Sugar,” you giggle, pulling your hand out of Astarion’s, who watches you with a cocked brow, his mouth slightly agape in astonishment, “It will not work on me.”

Your palms heat as you stalk steadily around her and Astarion. Running up and down the length of her svelte frame, your eyes analyze Elowyn with an iron gaze. She really is quite stunning, with her pouty lips polished with a red-hued stain, but she can’t conceal that conniving, duplicitous flare in her eyes from you.

“I am sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, spawn,” Elowyn croons innocently, “Astarion, dear, your toy is frightening me. She needs her Master to give her leash a yank.”

Astarion chuckles, bitter and biting, “I warned you to watch yourself,” he purrs, shoving her away from him, “Did I not?”

The blue flare of lightning erupts across her fingers, and you’re momentarily confused. You’re too away for her to cast Shocking Hands against you. It doesn’t dawn on you until it’s too late that her target is Astarion. You cast quickly and pitch her into the air with Telekinesis, sending her hurtling across the paved ground.

It’s too late, and you watch Astarion’s eyes flicker between the deathly spiritless frost and the vivid cardinal red. He shudders with a bellowing roar as the lighting courses through him. Seeing him in pain causes your intrinsic sorcery to surge in a torrent, along with the ardour of your rage. Fire detonates to life from your palm in a molten, oscillating sphere burning so hot it would put the very Hells themselves to shame.

You prepare to bombard Elowyn with the draconic firestorm, but Astarion’s strained voice makes you pause, “Don’t,” he grimaces as the aftershocks course through his body, making him twitch and jerk.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Astarion?” you snap, your body trembling with the sheer amount of power brimming inside you.

“I will explain everything,” Astarion’s eyes dance between ice and fire as the conflict inside him sieges his mind, “but right now, I need you. I cannot afford to lose control.”

You look between him and Elowyn, who remains unstirring on the rigid ground. You could kill her effortlessly right now and wipe her miserable soul from existence, but you would almost surely cause Astarion to lose the fragment of control he is hardly clinging to.

Elowyn or Astarion? 

The choice is obvious, but it still vexes you. “Fuck!” you scream into the sky, struggling to rein in your rampaging temper. The fireball in your palm ebbs as you try to douse it, “Tell me what you need.”

“Kiss me,” he commands.

You glance once more between Elowyn and Astarion, gods-fucking-damn it, you think, before sprinting towards Astarion. You drive yourself into his outstretched arms and take his lips in yours. He crushes you against him with such strength that you wonder if your ribs may splinter and break.

You slide your tongue over the sharp tip of your fang and let the metallic sharpness flood your mouth. You entice his lips to part, and a groan rumbles in his chest as your taste drags him back from the brink of oblivion.

The clattering of unsteady footsteps resounds, and Astarion breaks the kiss, glancing behind you. Elowyn is wobbling on shaky legs as she attempts to stagger away. The bright vermillion hue of blood streaks her face and drips from her cheek onto her soiled dress.

“She must not get away,” Astarion says with a voice bathed in malice.

You untangle yourself from him and cast Hold Person. A purple glyph renders on the ground under Elowyn, and she halts, mid-stride, dead in her tracks, as the blockade encompasses her. Glimmering chalky tendrils cavort around her, keeping her statuesque and speechless.

“Go back to the manor,” Astarion orders with a sharp edge, “I will return when I have dealt with this.”

He wants me to leave?

You can’t help yourself, and you grit your teeth as you try to bite back raw jealousy, “Are you taking her back to the palace,” you spit harshly, “to entertain her?”

“No, you adorable, envious thing,” he chuckles, “Most certainly not.”

“Then why do I have to leave,” you cross your arms over obstinately.

I do not take orders.

“I do not wish you to see what I’m about to do to her,” his eyes bore into you.

“You’re not going to kill her, or you would have let me do it,” your eyes tunnel into Astarion, scrutinizing him, “What do you not wish me to see?”

He sighs, running his hands through his hair, “How long will the spell hold?”

“It will dissipate with time, or I can end it at my whim, but you are avoiding the question.”

“Fine,” he growls. His hand rests at the back of his neck, and he shakes his head slightly, "If you wish to stay, then stay, but keep behind me and do not look into my eyes.”

Your brow cocks in confusion, “Why?”

Astarion runs his fingers lightly down your arm with that practiced scheming smile, “Do as I ask, please.”

He’s trying to manipulate me.

“I’m staying.”

“Bloody Hells, you’re stubborn,” he groans as his face twists between an angry scowl and an amused grin. Astarion takes several steps forward before turning back to you, “You should take heed of my instructions at times, you know. I’m trying to protect you, and you’re making it exceptionally difficult.”

Protect me from what? From the feeble, sad sack of flesh stuck in my cage?

Astarion disperses and becomes flesh again at the other end of the street in front of the imprisoned Elowyn with his arms crossed, regarding her with low, pinched brows.

Show off.

Casting Misty Step, you vanish and appear beside him. Elowyn’s eyes flicker between you, but that’s all she can move. You stare at her acutely with a smug smile. The wound on her forehead still weeps, and blood dribbles down her face, slow and syrupy.

“How long until she’s free?”

“I can let her free if you wish,” you say while walking a lap around the suspended woman, trying to figure out what is so off about her that makes your hair stand on end, “or you can wait for the spell to wane.”

Astarion’s eyes cast skyward, “It will be dawn soon. Get behind me, let her go, but do not look into my eyes. Do you understand?”

You press your back against Astarion’s as you stare off in the opposite direction, “Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Do it.”

Gripping the Weave, you allow the spell to unravel and give Elowyn her freedom. The scent of her blood on the air is heavy this close, and you feel like you’re frothing at the mouth, trying to bulldoze your profane urges down. Astarion’s hand turns and folds over yours, giving you something to concentrate on.

“Astarion,” Elowyn gasps, finally able to speak, “You don’t have to do this. I overstepped. Master, please be merciful.”

She calls him Master? HA!

“Elowyn, darling,” Astarion’s voice is wrapped up in the velvety tone of manipulation you remember so well, making you wince, “You must learn your place, or I will be forced to replace you.”

“Master,” she sobs, “please.”

“Be a very good girl and look into my eyes, Elowyn,” Astarion coos, “You will go home tonight, crawl into your bed and fall into a deep sleep. When you awaken, this will all be but a dream.”

Elowyn’s voice is emotionless and blank when she answers again, and you can’t help but spin around. Staring into her eyes, you recognize the compulsion from the guards at Cazador’s. Threads of red rays are weaving around her as she stares at Astarion, unwavering.

Gods, she doesn’t even blink.

There’s nothing but a vast emptiness in those sapphire eyes now, almost as if you were looking into the eyes of a corpse. Her pupils are blown wide, obscuring much of the colour of her irises. This should delight you, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t a little, but you wonder how often he’s made you forget. How many times has he made you go home and think something was simply a dream?

No wonder he didn’t want me to witness this. Can I not even trust my memories?

At Astarion’s command, Elowyn walks away in a rigid and jerky motion as if her limbs are carved from wood. They lurch stiffly, and you can hear her repeating, “Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream,” as she marches wherever she goes.

You watch Elowyn disappear into a dark alley, repeating those words in a hollow voice, “What did you do to her, Astarion?"

You already know, but you must hear him admit it.

“Probably precisely what you think,” Astarion says with a stiff back, standing exceptionally tall and intimidating, “I compelled her.”

A tremble runs through you, “How long does that last?”

“Until my commands are completed,” he looks at you, and you watch an ominous glow recede slowly from his eyes, “As far as I can tell.”

How many times has he done this to me? Another thing I must be alert for.

The walk back to the manor is tainted with an awkward silence. Flaming Fists patrolling the streets nod to Astarion as if they are acquainted, but they give you careful, often fearful, looks and even change their paths to keep their distance from you. You are tempted to scream “BOO!” at them to see if they jump.

Astarion walks casually beside you and, oddly enough, slows his pace to yours. In your peripheral vision, you catch his eyes repeatedly snapping toward you. You pretend not to notice his peculiar behaviour, but apprehension claws at you, ruffling your nerves. Usually, it was hard to get Astarion to shut up, but right now, you wish he would say anything to dispel the cumbersome stillness.

Casting your eyes heavenward, you stare into the sky, not a cloud to be seen. All those little pinpoints of twinkling lights are starting to dwindle as the moon prepares to yield to the sun, “Astarion, are you still yourself?"

“Yes,” he crosses his arms and cocks his brow, “I am still myself, more or less. Why?”

You pivot on him quickly, grabbing his arms with a bright smile, “Can we watch the sunrise?”

Astarion halts, eye round and brows raised so high they seem to be trying to climb onto his scalp, “You wish to watch the sunrise with me?”

“If you promise you won’t let the sun burn me.”

“Never, my sweet. I would be honoured,” Astarion grins boyishly, his fangs in plain view, “I know a perfect place. This way.”

Astarion twists you through the upper city streets until you reach the newly rebuilt High Hall. The palace towers into the sky and construction continues on a few additions and extra wings stretching outward.

Several grand spires topped with parapets sit atop an elaborate multistory estate with elegant windows. It is protected by an outer wall with several rather large round towers. The central courtyard boasts lush gardens, expertly manicured with crisscrossing walkways lined with benches.

“Astarion,” you say while looking around at the extensive scenery, “where in the Hells are you taking me?”

He points to the tallest rounded tower with a flat top, “Up there.”

Glancing at it, you cross your arms and stare at him with knitted brows, “I can’t get up there. I can’t see where I’m going.”

He chuckles with a sly smile and shrugs, “I guess I will be the only one watching the sunrise then because I can fly up there.”

Sometimes, you can’t tell when he’s joking, and you stare at him petulantly with pursed lips.

“Oh, you are adorable when you’re being sour,” an endearing crooked half smile draws up the corners of his mouth, “No tricks needed. We are just going to walk right in.”

Walk right into High Hall?

Astarion strides through the grounds with you on his heels. He’s familiar with the property and knows what paths to take and where to turn. With dawn approaching, the groundskeepers are starting their rounds of watering and pruning the various plants. They all greet him with a bow and a respectful “Saer” before continuing their routines.

Gods. They know him. What the fuck has he been up to?

He lets himself into a tower where a couple of guards are playing cards or dozing in their chairs. They jump to attention as soon as they see him. Some pop up so abruptly that their rickety wood chairs and stools capsize with a rattle.

“Master Ancunin,” they greet him with their heads bowed in respect.

“At ease,” Astarion instructs, “Wigmund, I will be at the top. No one is to disturb me. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Master Ancunin, as you say,” the burly man rasps.

You duck down slightly to try and look at their eyes. You can hear hearts beating, but you wonder if one or more of these poor souls are Astarion’s spawn.

How else would he have such command over them?

Astarion crosses his arms and cocks a brow at you, “Heads and eyes up, all of you,” he barks before motioning to you with his hand in a dramatic gesture, “Take a good look, my dear.”

The men snap their heads up with wild eyes. You stare at Astarion, observing his eyes to ensure you haven’t upset him. He stands casually, aloof and quite clearly bored but with a lopsided grin. You stare into the eyes of all the men, browns, blues, and greens, but none are sanguine red.

“Finished your inspection of my men?” Astarion tuts, “We will miss the sunrise if you take much longer looking for things that aren’t there.”

“I’m going to have questions for you later, Astarion,” you taunt with a wry smile.

“You are exceptionally nosy these days,” he admonishes playfully, bounding up the twisting staircase as you follow, “It seems we have much to discuss.”

Astarion motions to the ladder leading the hatch that will open to the top of the tower, “Ladies first.”

“Are you angry?”

He sighs with a theatrical flair, “Why? Because you inspected the guards to see if any of them were my spawn instead of simply asking me?”

“You’re not answering the question.”

Astarion’s fingers slide down your arm, “I’m not angry in the slightest. You may inspect as many guards as you want. I care not.”

You point at the ladder, “You go up first.”

He bows, “As you wish.”

Climbing onto the top of the tower, your eyes are met with a breathtaking view of the Chionthar and lower city. Large and small boats slice through the otherwise still waters as the first dim wisps of light creep up on the horizon.

Astarion’s hand comes to the small of your back, “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful up here.”

“It is,” he smiles one of the most beautiful smiles you’ve ever seen on him, “Come. Sit with me. Sunrise is not far off now.”

You crawl onto the flat stone top and let your legs hang over the edge precariously. Looking down, you shrink away as anxiety tightens in your stomach. You were never a big fan of heights. It’s been established that you are not the most graceful being to walk this land, and part of you fears you might topple right over the edge.

Astarion watches you intently before shaking his head and giggling at you, well aware of this phobia, “Heights still trouble you?” he looks down and cocks his head, “The fall wouldn’t kill you, but it would be painful.”

“Wow,” you scoff at him dryly, “Thank you. I feel much better now.”

“Come here, little love,” he chuckles as he grabs you by the waist and moves so you’re sitting comfortably between his legs, “I’ll protect you from your woeful clumsiness.”

The first swell of the sun ascends over the horizon, and you lurch back further into Astarion, gritting your teeth in a knee-jerk reaction. You know you’re safe with him, or at least you hope so, but logic succumbs to panic. Burying your face into Astarion’s chest and closing your eyes, you grip tight handfuls of his shirt.

Please, please, don’t hurt me.

“It’s alright,” Astarion pushes the hair out of your face, and his fingers sweep up and down your arm, “I’ve got you. Open your eyes.”

You open one of your eyes in a narrow slit and peek out of it, looking toward the horizon. The golden sphere climbs slowly, casting outstanding, sharp oranges and pale yellows into the sky. The radiant light frisks over your pale skin, and you smile.

Astarion lights up when he sees you smiling. His arms pull you closer, and he rests his head against yours and whispers, “This is nice.”

It is.

You relax in Astarion’s arms as you both watch the birth of a new day.

Standing in the long hallway, you stretch with a yawn. The heavy drapes cover the windows, smothering the manor in shadow, which means Astarion has gone out. On your way to the library, you pass a large mirror with a delicate silver trim. You peer into the reflective surface. Unsurprisingly, the mirror remains empty and void of your image. You let the pads of your fingers slink down the smooth finish. It used to make you sad, this lack of reflection, but somewhere along the way, you became anesthetized to it.

You look down the hall at Astarion’s bedroom door. It’s slightly ajar, and you can’t help but take a peek inside.

I shouldn’t.

Despite your better judgment, you push further into his room, letting your fingers trace over the baroque tables and wardrobes fashioned from deep plum-stained wood. Papers and ledgers are strewn on his desk, various contracts and purchase agreements with notes and signatures in his immaculate hand.

A rectangular black leatherbound notebook lays on his bedside table. Picking it up, you sit on the bed and let your fingers meander over the smooth cover. You know you shouldn’t open it; you shouldn’t be here in the first place, but curiosity was always your downfall. Your fingers undo the ties, keeping the oddly shaped notebook closed, and you flip it open.

Your face stares back at you from the page, and you gasp as your eyes pine over the beautifully detailed sketch. Gods, you haven’t seen yourself in so long, and you wonder if it’s even you for a moment. Your fingers shake as they hover over the drawing. You fill page after page countlessly as you flip through them.

Every single one.

You hear the creak of the manor door open, the resounding thump of Astarion’s heartbeat and footsteps as he ascends the staircase. You should leave, but your eyes are fixed on the image of your eyes before you. At least, you think it’s your eyes as they appear now, but you’ve never seen them, so you can’t be sure. It’s the only sketch in colour. Red veils most of the irises, but there are splotches, cracks and slivers where another colour emerges against the vivid scarlet.

Astarion leans against the doorframe. His arms crossed, “Snooping, are you?”

“I didn’t know you draw.”

“My dear, I’m 200 years old, with much of that time spent hiding away during the day,” he tuts with a low chuckle, “I am a man of many talents.”

“These,” your voice drifts as you swallow hard and turn another page, “These are all...”

“You,” he cuts you off, “Yes. Observant, as always.”

Finally prying your eyes away from the page, you stare at him bewildered, “Why?”

Astarion sits beside you on the bed, “I could never get you out of my head,” he shifts the notebook out of your hands and stares down at the page, “For awhile, these were all I had left of you.”

“I-I,” you spring off the bed, intending to leave, “I’m sorry. I should not have been in your room.”

“I did say I could be convinced to call it our room,” Astarion grabs your arm, a sly grin quirking up the corners of his lips, “You’re welcome in here, even if it’s just to rummage through my things, you delinquent.”

Our room. It sounds so good.

No. I cannot let myself get caught in this trap.

“Is that what my eyes look like now?”

Astarion turns the page and cocks his head, examining it, and then back at you scrutinizingly. Walking to the window, he pulls the curtains back, allowing sunlight to splash over the room and beckons you closer with his finger.

“Look at me,” he angles your face so the sun washes over it, “Hm, close, but I could do better.”

Astarion almost rips the page out, and you grasp at his hands with a yelp, “What are you doing!?”

He giggles with a smirk, “Don’t fret,” his thumb caresses your cheek, “I will sketch it again.”

“If you’re just going to tear it out and throw it away, can I keep it?”

He cocks a brow at you and looks at the page. Smiling, he tears it out carefully and hands it to you, “It’s all yours, beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you say breathlessly, staring at it, mesmerized.

“If you’re done poking about now,” he sighs while closing the notepad, “I believe we have matters we must discuss.”

Elowyn. Fuck.

A discussion topic you would rather avoid. You’re not ready to hear whatever he has to say, and truthfully, you don’t want to know what kind of relationship he has with her. She already told you more than you care to know.

You look at him, crestfallen, “You want to discuss Elowyn.”

He nods, “You did well to avoid an altercation with her,” Astarion praises, taking your hand, but you pull away from him.

“I’m not an idiot. She was trying to bait me,” you scoff, clenching your jaw with a frown, “I have used the same tactic many times. She knows what you are, Astarion, and about whatever is wrong with you. She tried to get you mad on purpose. You realize that, right?”

“Yes, that’s quite clear after her little performance,” Astarion’s fingers cradle his chin, “Her motives for such a demonstration still elude me, though.”

You toss your head back and laugh steely and sarcastic, “She wants me out of the way. I suppose she’s not happy to share you,” Astarion’s mouth opens to speak, but you trample over him, “I don’t want to know what she is to you,” your eyes shine, wet with unshed tears, “Please. Spare me that pain.”

“Sweetheart…” he mewls with a timbre of candied gloss.

“I said no, Astarion,” you say, sharper than any dagger ever could be. Your hands shake as you place the drawing on a table, careful not to crease the delicate parchment.

“Why do you evade this?” he roars coarsely while tearing off his coat as if it’s suffocating him, throwing it aside, “Why does this upset you so much? You abandoned me!”

“If you don’t know why this upsets me, then you are being intentionally ignorant, Astarion!” you scream as the tears finally spill out of your eyes, “I thought… I thought...”

I thought you loved me.

You wrap your arms around yourself to stifle your sobbing, “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

Leaning your back against the wall, you hope it might help steady you. Sometimes, you miss the all-consuming numbness that has been slowly unthawing, leaving you this walking emotional catastrophe. Your knees feel like jelly as sobs you’re trying to keep suffocated wrack your body.

“Elowyn means nothing to me,” he whispers in a velvet dulcet, “She is simply a means to an end.”

I guess we are doing this.

“If she means nothing to you, why didn’t you let me end her,” you wipe the tears staining your cheeks, “Why did you protect her? It’s hardly like you to be against murder.”

“She is still useful to me. She is a rather keen alchemist and a proxy for that vile Drow merchant.”

Drow merchant? No… It couldn’t possibly be.

“I’m sorry. What?”

His fingers wrack through his hair fitfully, messing the perfected style, “I’ve contracted the blood merchant to do some,” he pauses, “assessments for me. Elowyn is her assistant.”

Did I just hear him correctly?

Exploding, you scream at him. Leaping forward, grabbing his shirt, you shake him, “Please tell me you are not talking about Araj Oblodra?”

“The very one.”

“What in the fuck are you doing cavorting with her,” you scold him, flushed with helpless rage, “you hate her!”

“I do, most fervently,” he retorts harshly, “which is why Elowyn takes care of the dirty work.”

“Assessments?” you cringe, the word tasting sour on your tongue, “Please tell me you are not giving her access to your blood.”

He won’t even give me his blood.

“If I tell you that it would be a lie, and I’m no liar,” he says in a crystalline tone, “The ritual changed the composition of my blood. I’d rather like to know why and if it has anything to do with my… ailment.”

He’s gone completely mad.

“You godsdamned idiot! How could you be so careless? You have no idea what your blood is capable of!”

“Oh, come now,” he scoffs with a serrated click of his tongue, “Don’t be dramatic, darling. It’s only a minuscule amount. They could hardly do anything with it.”

“Fuck,” you rage on, and all the candles in the room alight at once with long, skinny flames twirling like tornados unnaturally, “I can’t believe you would be so fucking brainless.”

He glances at the candles and shrugs with a clever glint in his eye, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” he waves dismissively, “and all that.”

“Close is one thing, but taking her to your bed?” you give him another vigorous shake as if you might be able to physically shake sense back into him, “What in the nine Hells are you thinking!”

“Take her to my bed,” his brows pinch together, “whatever are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me,” you rasp, tears freefalling from your eyes, “She told me about your relationship, and you implied it the night she showed up, and you told me it was none of my business! A long night entertaining your guest, remember?”

His forehead creases, and his eyes shift as if trying to recall memories, “Ah,” he looks suddenly abashed, “Yes, I suggested that. I, uh, may have embellished… a little.”

“Why? What was the point?”

“I asked you to stay that day, remember? I asked you to stay with me in the palace, and you declined. I may have, perhaps, a trifle childishly lashed out.”

“But Elowyn,” you finally let him go and start pacing the room, “she told me!”

“I’m curious,” Astarion straightens his shirt where your unyielding grip rumpled it, “What exactly did she tell you?”

“She said you two were having a lot of fun. I believe her exact words were, “Sex, sweetness, sex,” you bristle while trying to quell the nauseating wave that unfurls and tickles your throat, “She made sure the clarify that for me as if I were some fucking halfwit.”

Astarion throws his head back and laughs loudly, “Gods. She wishes,” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, “Elowyn has never graced my sheets. That is not to say she did not try, of course, but can you blame her? I am terribly charming.”

“You’ve,” you blunder. Your tongue feels numb, and you can’t get it to form the question, “Never?” you ask, finally managing to nudge it out clumsily.

“Absolutely not!” Astarion exclaims, clicking his tongue in disapproval, sticking his nose pompously in the air, “I do not fraternize with my underlings.”

Was that why he wouldn’t touch me? Did he consider me his underling?

“Why,” you stammer, swallowing hard, “why would she tell me that? What would she gain from it?”

“You did say she was trying to goad you,” he shrugs, “As for her motivations, I do not know, but I intend to find out.”

“I’m still going to fucking kill her one day,” you growl with a devilish smirk, relishing the vivid unpardonable visions racing through your head, “after I discover what she is up to.”

“Still murderous,” he grins wickedly handsome, “I’m impressed. When the time comes, she’s all yours, my love.”

My love.

You giggle at his approval, but it fades as you stare into those engrossing ruby-red eyes. You crash into him, wrapping your arms around him, taking his lips in yours, primal and uninhibited. Astarion groans, and his tongue darts into your mouth, desperate to savour you as if he is a drought and you are the first droplets of rain in centuries.

Gods, your hands ache to roam the silk ivory of his skin, and you tug at his shirt. He pulls it off in one swift motion before his lips crash into yours again, his hand cradling your cheek. You start to undo the metal clasps of your shirt. Apparently, too slowly, and he tears it from your body, tossing it aside uncharacteristically carelessly, the usual requirement for order and tidiness slain by his untamed need for you.

“You’re beautiful,” he drawls, “So Godsdamned beautiful.”

Your rationality is eclipsed by infernal, white-hot desire. You pull him close, letting your searing hands pour over the contours of his flawless body. You are slipping, tumbling down an icy hill you will never be able to ascend again, but at this moment, you barely recognize yourself nosediving to your demise.

His hands burn trails of vitality into your lifeless skin. A deprived whimper escapes your mouth, and you can feel the smug smile spread across his lips. He knows, he always knows you won’t fight him, won’t spar with these feelings, even when you should.

Gripping the back of your thighs, Astarion pulls you off your feet, just as he did that night in the forest. Your legs straddle his waist, and in a couple of fluid, silent steps, he pins you between himself and the lofty mattress with his hips. He grinds his erection against you, eliciting unconstrained sighs from you against his starved, urging mouth.

His hand pushes past the waistband of your trousers to find you slick with arousal, and a moan rumbles deep in his chest. A feverous tension coalesces in your abdomen. Fuck, you should stop him, you should, but you don’t. He has poisoned you and made himself the antidote, leaving you helpless against him.

“What do you want, darling,” he coos with a voice like a warm spring day, “Tell me what you want, and I will make it yours.”

Astarion’s dexterous fingers sweep gently over your swollen clit in flawless execution. He remembers you, remembers your body and remembers exactly how to drive you to unadulterated senselessness, which is exactly where he wants you. Isn’t it? Senseless and begging, pleading, beseeching him for his touch, his love, his acceptance.

Hells, you know better than to let him overwhelm you, but being with him is like second nature in the same way breathing had once been. Even after all this time, despite everything he’s done, you cannot fathom how not to love him.

“I want-” you murmur as his finger glides magnificently around the pulsing bundle of nerves, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out at the decadent sensation, “Fuck, Astarion. I want you.”

“And I want you, only you,” he articulates in an assertive, sultry inflection, carefully pronouncing every word as if his very life depended on getting the message across, “Forever, until the world falls down.”

Astarion’s fingers crook in your waistband, and he pulls on it lightly in a silent query for permission. You’re in a tailspin, spiralling into the depths of your desires, and you feel yourself nod before you have even really had time to consider the request.

Astarion strips you, and you’re bared to him entirely. His crimson eyes gorge themselves on the banquet of your pristine snowy skin with such intensity you can feel them dancing across your flesh.

Astarion leans over you, lowering himself in a torturously slow progression, and his lips wrap around your nipple. His tongue flicks over the sensitive peak, and you writhe against him in a hopeless attempt to curb the pang between your legs.

His warm mouth brushes down your stomach, over your belly button, his breath hot and humid. Your body produces heat no longer, but Gods, you feel feverish as if he’s breathing new life into you.

Astarion lifts your leg, trailing chaste kisses down the delicate skin of your inner thigh as he places it over his shoulder. You lurch forward, nearly bounding completely upright, when his tongue laps at your swollen clit. Astarion holds you down, steadfast and unwavering, while he states his fervent hunger with the taste of you. Those eyes look at you through thick lashes full of covetous eroticism that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

His eyes close, and his lips wrap around your sensitive bud, driving you further into bliss. You tangle your fingers in his hair as your body jerks with every sweep and flick of his tongue.

Astarion’s fingers tease your entrance, and he relinquishes his foray of sensation on your swollen flesh. You groan in displeasure at his retreat, and he chuckles deeply, which results in an impetuous scowl from you.

“Oh, don’t be cross, love,” he taunts with a sly smile before he sucks on his fingers, that captivating crimson gaze never letting your eyes retreat. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a lewd pop, “When have I ever left you wanting?”

His tongue delves, parting your sex as his fingers sink into you in a slow progression, allowing your body time to adjust. A vulgar and indecent growl resonates from him as he eases in until he’s knuckle-deep.

He twitches the pads of his fingers upward as he starts languid thrusts, hitting your G-spot. Your back arches and hips jerk as he escalates his tempo to harmonize with your breathy whimpers.

He must feel the traction of your release begin because he moans deeply against your tender pearl, and that sound, the embodiment of passion and longing, sends you spiralling overboard. Astarion doesn’t stop the delicious onslaught of sensation until he’s coaxed every splintering pulse out of you. His name cries from your lips in a sonorous, majestic recitation.

Your vision has barely started to clear when his lips catch yours, and you can taste yourself on his breath, driving your desire to new heights while your fingers grapple with the border of his breeches.

“Say you are mine,” he instructs, in a husky tone with those blood-red eyes digging into you, hooded and affectionate, “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m yours. Please. Gods, please,” you whine in shattered breaths.

In a split second, before you even have time to perceive his movements,  Astarion crawls up the bed, his knee hooking yours, spreading your legs wider. His hard cock slides through your folds with a lazy roll of his hip, covering himself in your arousal with a yearning quivering pant.

His swollen head pushes against your entrance. Astarion pushes the stray strands of hair out of your face with a tenderness you haven’t seen since he Ascended, “I will be gentle,” his eyes search yours for hesitation, “Are you ready?”

Ready?

Gods, you have far surpassed simply being ready. You crave him. No, you covet him, selfish and mandatory, and there is nothing that can stop you from drinking him in, “Fuck me, Astarion.”

“Fuck you?” he giggles, “How utterly vulgar,” he teases, “No, darling, I will make love to you unless you have objections, of course…” he trails off.

If you didn’t know better, you would say he was almost unsure of himself.

Make love?

Is it a trick? You can’t tell anymore, you don’t want to tell, and you drive the thoughts out of your mind, blurred by burning lust. You press your lips against him in wordless approval. Panting moans leave his mouth as you stretch to accommodate his girth.

He sputters, his chest heaving and breath snagging, “Hells, love, you’re tight,” he rasps low, clenching his teeth. He immerses his hard length into your wet heat gradually until he’s filled you, claimed you.

The throbbing in your centre bursts anew as he angles himself perfectly, and your nails dig harshly into the silken bed linens. The pads of his fingers find the pulsing collection that swells between your thighs as he starts to pump into you, careful and attentive, raptly watching you for any signs of discomfort.

“I want to hear my name cried from your lips,” he taunts, all provocation and suede baritone, “You will fall apart around my cock, won’t you?”

You know you will. The tension in your muscles is already ballooning with every snap of his hips. Astarion’s fangs drag delicately over your skin. The mix of pain and pleasure is too much, and you mewl in desperation.

“Astarion,” you stammer as your pleasure expands through your limbs, and your core clenches, gripping him, “Fuck, Astarion!”

He gasps, “I can feel you fluttering around my cock,” he stutters, breath hitching in his throat, “Dissolve into rapturous ecstasy around me. Fuck,” he groans, “With me, my love.”

You crest over the pinnacle of your pleasure as ordered, and the shockwaves rocket through you, violent and so brutally you wonder if your heart might have stopped if the grip of death had not already stilled it.

His name rips from your throat poetically, just as yours does from his, and he spills into you with a final, powerful thrust.

Both of you wrest unneeded air into your lungs, chests surging, rising and falling fruitlessly. You’ve let your attachment to him muddle your rationale, but Hells, does it ever feel brilliant.

“Good girl,” he purrs triumphantly.

He expected this all along. You can tell by the saccharine intonation, but you’re too spent to give a damn.

His lips faint over your ear and he whispers, “Hold on me.”

His arm glides around your waist as you wrap yourself around his neck, and he lays down, settling your head on his chest with your leg laced over his.

Astarion exhales a contented breath, and his fingers sweep up and down your arm tenderly, “You are unharmed, yes?”

There is genuine concern drenched in his voice that makes you think of a chapter of your life long gone, and you wince, “I’m alright,” you manage to stammer out, but your voice is as dry as yesterday’s dust.

Astarion jerks as if you’ve struck him at your intonation and uses his hand to cast your eyes toward his. His brows are furrowed as his eyes shift, trying to identify the nuisance parching your sun-baked voice.

“Did I hurt you?” his hand and eyes skim down your body as if looking for an injury or wound that might provide the explanation you’re not giving him.

“No, you didn’t hurt me,” you sigh, bony-weary and forlorn.

“Little love,” he coos, scarlet eyes bleeding into you, threatening to swallow you whole, “tell me, whatever is the matter?”

Before he can interrogate you further, his eyes harden and wrench away, bitter and unkind. Punitive, strident banging rattles the estate’s prodigious door on its hinges.

Astarion groans, trawling his hand across his face, “It’s for you,” he murmurs, irritated.

Your brows scrunch, and your body laments as you sit up with Astarion’s assistance, “How do you know?”

Astarion stares at you cold as a winter pond, “It’s the wizard.”

Gale? No, no, no! Fuck, not now, not here.  

I really appreciate everyone who takes the time to read/kudos/comment, etc. It gives me the confidence to keep the story going, and I hope you enjoy reading it as it unfolds!

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

Small Notes: - Well, Astarion has been exceptionally pleasant for a little while, but how will he react to Gale showing up and how will poor Tav deal with it? - Tav learned some new things in this chapter. Looks like we have a lot of different things we have to explore! - The Blood Merchant... Really, Astarion?

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts

[gazelessmenagerie]

A number of memories may slither to mind before they are dispelled, places he's visited and planets he's set foot on as he walks about this untamed land. Moving along on the breezes of the lornful terrain, he'd spy a village far into the distance.

He recalls the triple suns that beat down harsher than the single sun of this planet, the natives of that world were of a lower tiered planet but they welcomed both him and his father back in those days when the Brute had been small. Winding vines traversed across vast canyons and immense ravines, woven by the inhabitants through some form of power he wasn't aware of. They would sing to the immense roots of trees whose canopies stretched out like hands supporting the weight of scaly plates formed to protect from the intense rays of the suns.

Outcasted as he and his father were, those people offered them shelter and food to replenish themselves. The days blended into one another and most of it he can't recall than the songs he listened to and watched as those tendrils wove together to form bridges across the many gaps of the fractured land.

The fascination he held made him want to learn those songs but his father kept him close and away from the others. Hardly left alone, the keen eye of Paragus would see to it that his only son was well protected at that age. It would be told that it was for their own safety they keep low and have as little contact as possible aside from necessities. No one would care about the boy like his father did.

That was the law of this universe.

His eyes drifted to the sparkling water of a river further out, the sun setting the sky on fire with brilliant hues of orange and gold. The burning eye stared back at him and for a moment he smelled the acrid odor of smoke and fire setting the trees on fire. The leaves gave a metallic, harsh scent that made his lungs cough and the heat bit at the air like thousands of mouths with glistening maws wide open for the gnawing of anything they could set their fiery tongues upon.

It wouldn't be known what started it and for a while he pondered on what could've happened. Why had the fire been set loose on that area, spreading like a plague and severing the ties that bound one side to another. Ashes fell, shouting clamored outside.

Strong brows came a slow summit, the melody of those voices that had captivated him twisted into curdling screams once his father went out.

Learning the language spoken, he knew the reason why they came and it burned a hole into his heart from that day.

He could easily destroy that village now if he wanted to.. decimate their population to zero. Annihilate everything they ever came to know or hold dear. It'd all be gone in a flash of fire and for a moment he would've happily let loose a charged attack straight into the heart of it.

It was what they deserved to cast them out like vermin..

He stood at the peak of that mountain, wind howling back at him as the dark plume of his hair whipped around and the last rays of light smothered out one by one. The gleaming sight of his fangs could be seen as his mouth twisted to a sneering visage. The pinpricks of his eyes glowered with a vehemence at the thought of those worthless worms thinking they could take the heads of the last two Saiyans. It didn't matter if they once greeted with their welcoming melodies and shared their food with the two once a crowd had gathered at the behest of the ruling leaders. Whatever sparse bridges that had been built between were burned just the same as those roots once they ignited into an inferno.

The smell of blood was potent once it began, sharp cries and thundering howls. Oh if he had the power then as he had now, they'd never stand a damned chance in hell! He wouldn't have to resort to using damned rocks to crush in a skull or bite off flesh with his fangs. The sight of their blood on his hands, it churned something inside somewhere but the memory faded away shortly to the visage of green fields surrounded by those flowers from another place. The acrid stench drifted towards the sweetness of orange peels left out to dry in the sun and the wind collected into the thick mane of his hair.

Food left out for him and him alone only to be returned empty for the next day.

He didn't know when his arm had risen with an immense amount of energy concentrated to a pinpoint but he held the stance as the last embers of fire died to the calming resonance of nightfall. Tinges of green and blue faded to the west as the stars above began to dot into existence from their short slumbers. Green light illuminated his figure atop the mountain, held with a steady stream before it slowly dimmed with the clench of his fist extinguishing.

Another day..

. another day..

He had the damn choice to choose which day obliteration would come for that vlilage.

It was by his own hand he would decimate it but not yet.

Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps a week.

He, alone, decided that.

Darkness of the night, the fresh air he was deprived of for years filled his lungs. Children of the moon came out with their melodies and songs, scouring and scavenging as they are wont to do for the sake of surviving another night.

Still... that meadow kept repeating into his head, calming that savage heart as he thought on Mirin before it began to twist into the beating organ like a tightly clutched knife..

Eating away at him like a volatile poison leeching into his gut.

Thunder brought rain but no rain will ever follow a storm like him to replenish the land.

Shaking his head, he dispelled the cloying feeling and buried it deep into the furthest recesses of his mind to forget about it.

What damned use it is to think on things that didn't matter?!

All he was doing was wasting time and he needed to hunt for the night before the larger and more dangerous game escaped his grasp.

Get his damned thoughts straight and focus on the hunt.

#|| Gazing over the Abyss of Stars { Broly } #|| Drabble: { Broly } #( not my better works but it gets the job done cause damn this bastard's thoughts are all over the place. ) #( and for a reason. hence why it just feels choppy and jagged. or at least that's what I'm trying to play around with ) #( asldfj getting something written down for today is better than nothing~ )

[x-critter2022]

Many of us assume Rainhaze will die. After all, he has rejected any other path but the Defiance. All he has left is the orders of Ranger and the duty to kill, to kill because there is no reason to itself.

Finally dying would be a fitting end for him, a cure to his insomnia and no more blood to stain his teeth and claws. Nothing more to haunt him.

But wouldn't his worst ending be to survive whatever comes next?

The reckoning of Barrenclan is over. The storm has finally passed. Blood has stained the cracked earth but it will, inch by inch, recover.

And yet, he is alive. Ranger is dead. His heart refuses to stop beating. Defiance has fractured as Deepdark fell. He is still breathing the dry air. He is alone. It's raining yet the ground is dry.

He feels those eyes, orange eyes, burn into him. He knows they are too similar to Dustfeather. He knows they are too similar to Asphodel. The only difference is that they are not scared, but angry. He cannot bring himself to meet them.

This must be it. He spilt the blood of his kin and so his kin will spill his blood. He can finally rest. He closes his eyes.

But he never hears caterwauling. The strike never lands. Claws never shred and fangs don't rip. It is silent for far too long. When he finally glanced up she is walking away, not a single word at all.

He captures a glimpse of her eyes. They're yellow and tired.

This shouldn't be how it ends, because it hasn't. Despite it all, despite how easy it would be, no one has killed him and no one will. He is, unfortunately, left alive.

Perhaps, this is what supposed to become of him. After all, the cat he is now doesn't sleep.

#Pinepaw and the Forgotten World #PatFW #barrenclan #Rainhaze #Huh - weird how Rainhaze thought of orange eyes #writing #theory

[vanillaxoshi]

I actually got it in my dream yesterday XD (lol I do dream strange things don’t I?)

So I thought of a little continuation on your AU when Cahaya was almost dying in Petir’s hands but he survived! Not actually well they took him to the hospital and doctors managed to make his condition stable but they also said something… lemme just show you this au

Petir was walking down in the corridor of Tempur A Medic Hall. His face was cold as ever sending shivers down to all those nurses, aliens and hospital wards who saw him. He would careless about it as his mind was still processing on the event that happened yesterday, where his youngest brother’s BP fluctuated and he almost lost his life if Daun would have not visited him on time.

flashback:

THE PATIENT’S BODY IS COLD!

GET THE STABALIZER!

Doctor he almost went flatline!

“Your brother is stable for now” said the Doctor with a heavy voice, “The impact on his body was quite big, his back bone, nerve cord, and lower hemisphere of brain is injured, let’s not mention about his fractured neck and hands, he will be with oxygen tank until and unless his lungs get habitual with normal breathing rate” explained the doctor in much more simpler language than possible, “Also-“ and he stops there.

“Also?” asked Air as he noticed none of his brothers in a condition to ask anything while handling a stressful Api

“We don’t know for how long he’ll be in coma”

Those words were like a sword which pierced the remaining pieces of heart for the siblings

flashback ends

Petir sighs as he remembered the incident that happened two weeks back. He had arrived in front of the certain room he was walking to. He slowly opens the door and sounds of machine beeping welcomes him. As he walks inside he notices his younger brother with brown cap looking at his youngest brother expressionless. He keeps his hand on his brother’s shoulder who turns and looks back at him.

He (Tanah) gives Petir a painful smile, turns back at Cahaya once more, gets up and leaves from there

Petir looks at the door which his brother had closed as he walked away. He takes a seat next to Cahaya and looks at him carefully remembering the events that happened from past two weeks.

Tanah avoids everyone, he rarely prefer speaking to anyone else rather than his brothers but he had become over protective towards them. He constantly blames himself for Cahaya’s condition as he was the one who allowed him to take part in this mission.

Api is always angry and stressful. His nightmares aren’t helping him either which has returned after years. If Air or Angin don’t calm him down time to time, Tempur A will become just like their destroyed Tapops station.

Air calms down Api and shows that he is unaffected but him eating very less than his usual appetite and sleeping more than he usually does is concerning.

Daun usually locks himself up in Cahaya’s room or lab. He talks to himself most of the time and tells himself the weird facts he read from textbooks not really understanding any of their meanings.

Angin’s fake smiles and outgoing nature makes him sick. He bakes the cookies and eat them and tell about it’s flaws and nutrients to himself mimicking a certain septuplet.

Fang….he don’t know what’s going on with Fang? He rarely sees Fang on Tempur A. He just knows that Fang takes in from one mission to another whether they are small or big, he just occupies himself with work while he or his brother’s can’t do that as they are provided with a month of break from Commander due to Vargoba’s incident.

Petir comes out of his trance and looks at the time.

Ah! Visiting hours are almost over

He looks at the unconscious figure of his brother

He combs his hair and says with a soft voice, “You fought well”

“…………..You did a great job”

“Get well soon Haya”

Unknown to him a lone tear falls from his left eyes and he wipes it off roughly

“Sorry Haya”

Petir takes off his hand which was brushing Cahaya’s hair while roughly brushing off the rest of tears which managed to flow from his eyes

He wipes them and looks at Cahaya

“Sorry…..Your Abang was not able to protect you”

He bites his lips and calms himself down breathing slowly and steadily.

He closes his eyes and opens them bringing back his straight face showing he never expressed anything and walks away before any nurse could walk in telling him that he should leave now

AUGGHSHHHHHH THIS HIT ME

this is so wonderful, your choice of dialogue for the doctor is amazing and worded like that is so brutal because it adds in the injuries that arent seen visibly but has such a big impact to the human body. those types of injuries being fatal in one way or another

the way the brother's are affected in such different ways, either reverting back to their old mental state or having an opposite mental mindset to their original. Petir just being understanding and silent, trying to keep it together like tanah.

the way he just responds with little words but you can tell he cares and is very much affected especially since that near death experience happened on his hands, before his eyes

Api having nightmares, knowing both he and Petir was there firsthand at the scene, he and him saw they're brother get pounced, hurt, launched. they saw how he reached out to them last moment(yeah this is a thing i dont know if i mentioned in this au)

The rest, perhaps feeling lots of guilt because they werent there to support them in fighting and preventing all of that from happening

If this is based on my au's characterization of them then angin being the opposite of his mental mindset would make it worse knowing he's more freely expressive of himself, and him keeping it in shows how affected he is. like damn. love this

#boboiboy #xoshi answers #xoshi asks #bbb septuplet au #ankssastro scenarios

[birbleafs]

[drabble]: visceral

Characters/Pairing: Kavetham Rating: Mature for mild gore, murder (or rather, murder as a thought experiment, really lol), and cannibalistic imagery A/N: Drabble practice for the prompt: blade + poetic gore. Can also be read on AO3.

※ Kaveh would never backstab Al-Haitham—he isn’t that sort of “friend.” If anything, he would make certain that Al-Haitham is looking straight at him, holding his smouldering gaze evenly as Kaveh slips the blade so neatly, so carefully into flesh and muscle between the glint of Al-Haitham’s silver ribs, like a drowning, famished lover reaching in with too-sharp teeth to that blood-red throbbing organ nestled within the moist hollow of Al-Haitham’s fractured chest; a ravening beast drawing long, piercing fangs close—mine; always mine—to drink and devour, to gnash and relish the fierce thrumming hum of Al-Haitham’s bleeding heart.

#genshin impact #kaveh #alhaitham #al-haitham #kavetham #fanfic #not platonic not romantic; but that secret third thing (visceral devourment) #v0re as a metaphor/display for one's deepest desires and devotion... #look sometimes you just want your otp to murder and devour each other sexily lol